


The Blood of Kings

by qwikitty



Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim/Dragon Age
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkwardness, Blood and Gore, Crossover, Dawnguard, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Humor, Language Barrier, Like all DA and ES games, Miscommunication, POV Alistair, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Slow Burn, eventually, main quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwikitty/pseuds/qwikitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's nothing like a brush with death to make you... not like death so much." Alistair was left in the Fade to buy time for the Inquistor and Hawke to escape. And somehow he ends up in a completely new realm, with no foreseeable way to get back home. My very first fic. Please R/R. This is a slow burn! And slightly AU. But I'll try to keep it lore friendly.<br/>Follows the ultimate sacrifice choice in DA Origins. (That's why I tagged Major character death)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "More crazy? I thought we were all full up."

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Dragon Age, or from Elder Scrolls.

 

The Nightmare screeched in defiant rage even as it fell to the scorched earth. Disfigured body twisting, and spidery arms curling inwards in its death throe.

Alistair shuddered in a sort of horrified relief as he watched the demon's form begin to splinter with hairline cracks of sickly green light. Bits and pieces flaking off and floating away as its corpse disintegrated into dust and dispersed into the surrounding green fog that rolled through the boggy, black landscape of the Fade.

"Ugh!" Alistair's mouth twisted in disgust and he covered his nose and mouth with an armored forearm. "Don't want to breathe that shite in. I'll never get the taste out!"

He heard a gagging noise and looked to his left to see Iron Bull turn pale and look a little green himself.

"Aaagh! Why'd you have to say  _that_?" Bull growled, a bit annoyed and trying to play down his obvious squeamishness with a glare in Alistair's direction.

Alistair couldn't help but smirk, and raise his eyebrow mockingly, despite the unsavory situation they were all in. Seeing the huge brash ox-man close to tossing his cookies was definitely cause for amusement; and so he couldn't help but add:

"Well now, it makes me wonder about all this fog we've been wadi-"

"Aaagh!" Bull looked around at the surrounding said "fog" a little wild-eyed, and threw his arms out to hover over his sides as if to mitigate demon particle contamination.

"Ha! Glad you can keep your sense of humor." Varric chuckled as he came up on his right. Alistair noticed the strained quality in his normally unruffled voice; the tense set of his shoulders.

Alistair's own smile became strained as he looked from Varric to their incomprehensible surroundings.  _The bloody Fade of all places; in the bloody flesh, of all things. Maker preserve us!_

"It's either joke, my friend, or screaming hysterically..." Alistair looked back down to the dwarf, grimacing in distaste. "... and you know screaming is just  _so_  undignified."

Taking in the landscape of floating rocks and twisted pillars, the memory of all that the shadow of the Divine and the Nightmare had revealed, he couldn't help but lose his humor. Knowing that the Wardens had played a part in all of this chaos.

"Maker... how do I fix this?" Alistair sighed, suddenly tired, feeling as though he'd aged decades in the last few months. His frown deepened and he could no longer meet the eyes of his companions. His right hand clenched hard around the hilt of his sword, as he watched the black blood of demons run down the fuller and drip in thick globs from the blade onto the dry lifeless earth. Duncan's shield on his left arm, lowered, an impossibly heavy weight to bear at that moment.

"None of this is your fault you know." Varric spoke softly reaching out to grasp Alistair 's forearm. "You've done all that you could, fought against your fellow Wardens to keep all this from happening."

Still, Alistair could not meet his eyes.

_Did I do everything in my power to try and stop this? Was the Nightmare right? If I had only stepped forward and taken a leadership role in the Wardens could I have had the influence to prevent all this?_

"The Wardens may have unwittingly been in league with Corypheus, but you cannot place the burden of blame all on yourself Alistair." Hawke spoke consolingly from behind him. For all he had only moments ago, placed the blame of the Wardens at Alistair's feet, he knew he himself was not free of guilt.

"Look!" Cried out the Inquisitor up ahead, standing on a rise a few yards away with the elven apostate, Solas.

Alistair pulled away from Varric and ran ahead to meet with the Herald. There was no time for self pity and reflections upon all his past mistakes . What he did  _now_ , with the Inquisition,  _that_  was what mattered. He  _would_  redeem the Wardens.

Trevelyan pointed beyond the green haze, and across a blood soaked bog before them, to a path that led up to a narrow plateau. And there at the top, was a wavering pale green tear in the sky; hovering vaporously above the rocky shelf, and disrupting the dark green turbulent background with a distorted view of something brighter, and red.

 _Fire? A way back to Adamant?_  Whatever it was, it was a way out, and Alistair felt almost giddy with relief to see the end of this nightmare so near.

"The Rift!" Cried Trevelyan, "Lets move!" He urged his weary party ahead of him taking the rear with Alistair and Hawke, intent on seeing his people through first.

Bull needed no encouragement, but ran full out towards the tear in the Fade and was the first to plow through. Varric wasn't far behind, Alistair was sure he'd never seen the dwarf move so fast before. He could hear him cursing the entire way, something along the lines of "Maker's hairy balls!", and "I'm glad dwarves don't dream!" before he jumped/fell through the Rift that hovered a good two feet off the ground. Solas, on the other hand looked almost reluctant to leave, and cast his gaze about with a forlorn sigh before stepping through the Rift gracefully.

Hawke and Alistair went to follow eagerly, only to stumble to a screeching halt as something decidedly large and ultimately unpleasant began to seemingly condense out of the hazy atmosphere. Trevelyan, facing them and urging them to move forward, didn't notice as the huge chitinous limb of the beast drove down towards his unsuspecting head.

"Inquisitor!" Alistair yelled in warning; and the Herald, wide-eyed in terror, dove frantically back towards them.

The towering appendage crashed into the boggy ground where Trevelyan had previously stood, causing the earth to tremble beneath them. The companions staggered, arms stretched out to steady themselves. Alistair gained his balance and gazed up the pale thick craggy column to where it was attached to an equally large craggy pale armored carapace, with what seemed a dozen other massive legs leveraging the creature to hover above them. The great bulky head turned ponderously towards them, hundreds of milky dead eyes fixing upon them as it moved slowly into their path. Which put them in the untenable position of having a giant, monstrous, demon spider ( _of all things!_ ) between them and their only way home.

"Maker..." gasped Hawke breathlessly.

"How do we get by?!" Cried Alistair, desperation leaking into his tone.

There was a split second of undecided silence, as everyone's thoughts rushed for a solution.

 _Maker, this isn't happening!_ Alistair could feel a fine trembling take over his body, adrenaline spiking. He knew the bloody solution!

"Go!" Hawke yelled, "I'll cover you!"

The Inquisitor's eyes snapped to Hawke's, his gaze anguished as the realization dawned on the Herald as to what must be done.

"No!" Alistair interceded, "You were right, the Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must-"

"A Warden must help them rebuild." Hawke interrupted, "That's your job!" Hawke looked towards the demon in their path, his voice lowered, trembling with intensity. "Corypheus is mine."

_"Your whole life you've left everything to more capable hands."_

_Always, another steps forward! Another makes the sacrifices I'm too afraid to make!_

_"Who will you hide behind now?"_

"No!" Alistair said forcefully,"Not this time. Maker damn me before I let another sacrifice themselves in my stead!"

Before anyone could argue, or he lost his nerve, Alistair let out a resounding battle cry as he raced towards the great beast's underbelly and began artlessly hacking at whatever bit of limb and unprotected flesh he could reach. His shield raised to block acidic poison dripping from it's fanged maw.

"For the Wardens!" Alistair bellowed as he slashed at the things hook fanged mouth, cutting through and amputating one side. It screeched sharply and black blood poured from the wound like a waterfall.

Alistair jumped back, shield up, taking on a walking fortress guard stance between the spider and his compatriots and took a moment to catch his breath. His eyes caught Trevelyan's at the top of the plateau as he paused just before the rift. With more surety than he was actually feeling, Alistair gave the man that held the fate of Thedas in his hands a cocky salute with his sword arm, and launched himself at the steadily progressing arachnid.

He just needed to hold the fucker off until the Herald closed the rift, because that was definitely where it was heading.

Alistair dodged a sweeping leg and heard the high pitched cries of it's much smaller, though no less daunting fellows as they swarmed in by the dozens. For a few moments the battle became a bit hairy. Alistair dodged and blocked jumping spiders spitting poison, and giant sweeping legs as he swung his sword furiously. He wasn't too successful in the dodging and blocking, as he could feel acidic poison burning through the leather padding between the scale mail of his armor and underneath his neck guard, singeing his collar bone. A particularly sneaky blighter managed to pierce through an unarmored portion on the back of his upper thigh with a dagger sharp tarsal claw. With a pained yell, Alistair spun about, only to not quite miss a stream of poison aimed for his head. He could feel a painful burn across his cheek but dared not rub it away, as his gauntlets were already covered in viscous green poison and black spider ichor. His moment of pained distraction gained ground for the swarm and they closed in alarmingly quick. Alistair swung and thrust frantically; booting those that came up on his rear, and shield bashing others that came too close.

It seemed an eternity to Alistair, though was more likely only seconds, as desperation stole any finesse out of his swordplay. Adrenaline kept him from dropping as he felt his stamina falter; only to be thrown to the side some ten feet by one of the sweeping tree sized legs, catching him on his right. Sending him tumbling and flinging his longsword into the fray of writhing black shelled bodies.

Black spots swam before Alistair's eyes as he tried to gasp in air, only to be met with excruciating pain. He'd had enough broken ribs in his time to recognize his problem; one he'd probably not have to worry over as he struggled awkwardly with his shield still strapped tight to his left arm, to lift himself up; clutching his injured ribs, and watched as the horde of horrors advanced upon him. He sat there unarmed, shield raised futilely in front him, and the blighters slathered in preparation for the feast.

_Maker, let this be quick. Make it matter._

The first of the creatures had barely brushed his greaves, when a sudden burst of green light lit up the warped sky of the Fade. The Rift, only a few meters from where Alistair sat, shot out vaporous streams; latching themselves onto each of the surrounding demons, stopping them in their tracks. It enveloped them in green light that shot through them like lightning. Their bodies spasming then stiffening as they all screeched in agony and began breaking apart into flaming green dust.

None of it so much as brushed Alistair, but he felt the static tingle of powerful magic shivering over his skin, shaking his bones, and could hardly breath with the way it burned up the atmosphere.

There was a sudden swirling rush of wind at his back, strong enough to knock Alistair forward, pulling him towards the bright green shrinking light of the Rift. As he got closer the light began to change; became striated with fiery red and gold, and then in the next instant, it exploded outwards, knocking Alistair backwards arse over teakettle into blackness.

* * *

 

Alistair figured he must have lost consciousness for an undetermined amount of time, because the next thing he knew, he found himself fetched up against a wall of stone. He lay there on his right side, vision clouded, and ears ringing; his breath shallow and ragged, nose filled with the scent of blood and burning ozone. He was sure he'd broken a few more ribs during his tumble, and possibly broke his left arm as well; it lay unresponsive and pulsing pain behind his back at an awkward angle. His head throbbed mercilessly, and he couldn't focus his eyes on anything.

_Concussion, ...maybe?_

He wasn't sure how long he laid there taking stock of his injuries, but nothing happened; no spiders jumped out at him, or demons rushing in for the kill. He would have been easy pickings at that moment, but... nothing.

Eventually, Alistair managed to roll over onto his stomach and shakily lift himself up into a hand and knees position. His left arm hung uselessly from his shoulder; dented, bloody shield dangling from one remaining strap.

_Definitely dislocated then._

His head felt stuffed full of cotton, and all he could hear was a tinny sort of ringing in his ears; which had fluid trickling slowly out of them.

 _Blood most likely._  The concussive blast of the explosion must have burst his eardrums, it was making him feel light headed and dizzy with vertigo. Alistair stayed like that, head hanging down, watching blood drip and pool under him from an obviously nasty scalp wound.

_Those always did tend to gush more than they should._

His stomach rolled ominously, and before he knew it he was retching up whatever he'd had to break his fast this morning.

_Or was it yesterday?_

_Yeah, ...definitely a concussion._  With a grunt, Alistair managed to heft himself up so that he sat back on his heels; jaw slack and eyes closed for a moment to calm his stomach and slow his gasping breaths. His ribs felt on fire from all the uncontrollable heaving, and hacking. When he opened his eyes it took him a moment to blink the blood away, and he squinted trying to focus his hazy vision on his surroundings.

And he had to blink again.

Then again.

It didn't matter how many times he blinked his eyes, it still made no sense to his befuddled brain. Where before he had been surrounded by the Fade's sickly green atmosphere, in the horrible ambience of the Nightmare's realm; now he found himself in an entirely  _new_ alien environment.

And it was indeed alien, if far less intimidating. Alistair first noticed the sky, no longer swirling with dark ominous green clouds; but instead a beautiful, clear night sky. Twinkling with stars, the light of the two full moons casting an ethereal quality to the surrounding landscape.

_Two moons?_

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before he looked at them again, mouth gaping at the sight. They were large, one a great deal more so than the other, close together, and they both had an eerie orangish-red cast to them.  That wasn't how the moons were supposed to look.  He'd never seen them so close, and it wasn't even Satinalia yet.  Was it?

_Am I still in the Fade? In some kind of new dreamscape or demon's realm?_

He knew he wasn't dead, that was for sure. He hurt too much all over for him to think he'd passed on to the Maker's side. Plus he was cold. Freezing, actually, his breath coming out in clouded puffs, and now that he looked he found himself kneeling with his back to a rocky cliff face, inside a five foot half ring of steam. Beyond that was a clearly defined border of snow, as if someone had taken a circular cookie cutter to the six inch deep pristine powder. The light from the two moons reflected off of the blanketing white covering the ground, making it seem almost as bright as day.

Wearily, Alistair took stock of his surroundings, the tall imposing mountains behind him, and in the distance before him; the snowy plain that surrounded the flat topped rise he'd landed on. The small plateau he was on butted up against a larger cliff face and was ringed in tall standing stones that rose up, dark and menacing; casting imposing shadows inward, reaching the edge of his snow-less boundary.

Spindly, dead looking trees and brush dotted the edge of the hill top, leaving the center clear. To Alistair's left he saw what seemed to be a steep path leading down the hill side, and to his right was... a shrine? The standing stones looked like the were encircling a squat twisted dead tree, rooted into a raised rocky base. A brass burner sat before it, as well as animal bones and empty bowls for offerings he guessed. The whole thing gave Alistair an uneasy feeling, like he was being watched; and though it may have been the concussion, he began to get a queasy feeling from looking at it all.

 _This is just grand._ Alistair thought flippantly.

He collapsed backward from his kneeling position to lean his back against the rocks; stretching his legs out in front of him, avoiding the already freezing puddle of blood and sick he'd made on the ground.

_And here I was hoping this would all be quick and heroic._

Alistair doubted he'd be able to drag himself down the path, let alone travel anywhere to find shelter. Actually, he was deuced sure that if he tried to stand at that moment he'd just pass out; as he was shivering from blood loss as much as he was from the cold. He hadn't exactly thought to dress for this kind of weather.

The chill seemed to sap away what little energy he had left, and though Alistair knew he shouldn't, he felt his consciousness start to slip away in an exhausted retreat.

_Well, this has all been a bit anticlimactic._


	2. "Blast it..."

A sudden jagged bolt of red lightning lit up the sky and shot straight down, touching ground to the Southwest; surprising Embla and frightening her mount into rearing with a tremulous high pitched neigh. She clenched her thighs tight and clutched the mare's mane, gasping and struggling to keep her seat.

The beast's hooves had barely touched back down to the road when the deafening roar and clap of thunder trembled the earth. A shuddering cloud of powdery snow a foot high lifted up in a shock wave moving outward from the origin of the blast.

Embla cursed as her mount stumbled and squealed in fright before the beast lunged forward into a panicked gallop.

"Whoa!" Embla cried out, "Whoa! You blasted, braying cow!" It took her a few minutes to pull the mare's head around, who turned in circles a number of times before she finally stilled; stance wide, chest billowing as she snorted with her head lowered. She'd worked up a lather in her fear, and her eyes still rolled about searching for the danger she'd sensed.

Embla lowered her voice, and spoke soothing nonsensical platitudes to calm the animal as she looked in the direction the strange lightning had struck. It had come from the valley to her right, southwest of the Karth River; which she was following on the way to Markarth. She could see streams of white smoke, or steam rising maybe a mile or two from her position. The light cast by both Secunda and Masser as they waxed full reflected brightly off of the snow, and despite the reddish tinge they held as they hovered close to the horizon, they lit up the night and revealed her surroundings clearly in a silvery monochrome.

Pushing back slightly on the fur lined hood of her cloak to get a better view, Embla chewed her lip in indecision behind the wool scarf wrapped snugly around the lower half of her face and neck. She was unsure whether to hurry on her way to avoid whatever trouble had visited the Reach; or diverge from the road, and into the valley that lay over the hills to the Southwest. It would probably take her but half an hour to ride over to the site to investigate... whatever it was, and Embla's curiosity was fired at the source of this anomaly; for the sky was clear of clouds, and there had been no warning before the bolt had struck.

It was a mystery, and Embla could never leave one of those unsolved; at least not without a quick look. She assured herself that she was just going to scout out the area to determine whether or not it was something her people needed to take care of. There was no telling what could have caused such a powerful spell; a Vampire coven, more of Harkon's followers practicing dangerous blood rituals, was her guess. If that was the case then she was obligated to find out what the abominations were up to, and at the very least it was just some crazy mage playing with magic that should be left well enough alone. If it was indeed the work of those foul blood drinkers then she could just rush back to Dragon Bridge to enlist the help of her fellow hunters, who she'd left with the Moth Priest; to protect him while he recuperated after his imprisonment by the Vampires, and to ensure his safe passage back to Fort Dawnguard. No sense in getting herself killed, or worse, turned into a thrall because of her curiosity.

Determined now to look into the matter, Embla wheeled her huffing mount about and set off in the direction of the rising column of smoke.

* * *

 

It actually took her the better part of an hour to work her way to the blast site. The hills surrounding it were steep and rocky, and she'd had to travel a bit out of the way to find a suitable path she could lead her horse through. She'd had to leave her skittish mount about a quarter mile back on the sparsely wooded trail along the ridge, reins loosely tied to a low hanging branch. The damned animal would likely break its neck going down the steep slopes, and would alert the whole valley to her presence with the way it kept snorting and squealing at every little noise. Sound tended to carry for long distances in the valley, bouncing off the surrounding hills and the sheer rock walls that encircled the deep basin.

Embla kept to deeper shadows in the brush and rocks at the perimeter of the valley; still fairly high up in elevation, she had to watch her footing as she descended the rocky ice covered slope.

She was close now, the smoke had dissipated some time ago, but she had made note of the general area it had been in. She was counting on the hope that she would know it when she saw it; as the cause (or effects) of "red" lightning would be hard to miss.

Coming up on the steep hill that led to a plateaued bluff that over looked the valley, Embla checked to make sure her blade would easily clear its sheath at her back and unshouldered her bow. She was a bit apprehensive about what she would find and preferred to scope out the area at a distance but there was no other way up, unless she wanted to climb up to the top of the cliff above it and come  _down_  on it. It was also probably the best lookout point on this side of the valley; so even if she found nothing at the top, she'd have a good vantage point to get her bearings and find what she was looking for.

Embla slowly made her way up, pulling and notching an arrow from the quiver behind her right shoulder; keeping it low and ready. She made sure to watch her footing so as not to slip in the snow and ice that ran down the steep incline. As she got closer to the top Embla got a sick feeling in her stomach and had to take a deep breath to stave off the nausea that rolled through her stomach. She caught the stench of blood and vomit along with the painful chill of freezing air up her nose and fought not to cough in reaction. She debated the wisdom of her current course of action as her unease skyrocketed, and she slowed her pace even further. Her guess, she'd found what she was looking for, and now she wasn't sure if she wanted to find out what it was.

_Can't turn back now you s'wit!_

Keeping herself close to the wall of the cliff face that backed the shelf to her right with the edge of a long drop off to her left, Embla cleared the crest of the wide ledge. Quickly she drew her bow taut, fletching brushing her cheek as she brought her hand up to her anchor point in a ready position, and knelt down to stabilize herself and present a smaller target, scanning the area for any hostiles.

At first she saw nothing, and it was eerily quiet. The wind roaring through her ears inside her heavy hood, and whipping about her cloak the only sound she heard. A ring of monolithic stones circled the flat area, seeming to frame a raised jagged boulder topped by a squat and sick looking twisted tree. Besides that, nothing. No movement, no sound.

_But a shrine? To who, or what?_

Whatever it was, looking at it brought back that sick feeling again and she quickly turned away; eyes sweeping over a dark lump against the rock wall close to the "shrine". Embla did a double take, and gasped as she lowered her bow and rushed towards the crumpled figure.

It was a man! Slumped over and covered in blood and sick; which also lay in a freezing puddle close by. He sat on a perfectly circular section of ground uncovered by snow, no foot prints leading in or out of the area around him. No sign anywhere else that he, or anyone, had been up here; as if he'd appeared out of nowhere.

_Or maybe fallen from the sky?_

Embla looked about her nervously as she came up beside him. She re-slung her bow behind her, cross bodied and replaced her arrow before she knelt down to take a closer look at the stranger.

It was hard to make out his features with the bloody mess he was covered in, but he was mostly clean shaven, his hair an indistinct color matted down with gore, and he wore well made scale mail armor. Also covered in gore. A battered, bloody shield lay slightly across his lap, still strapped partially to his left arm, but she saw no weapon as she scanned him and the area close by.

"By the Nine, what happened to you?" She whispered, as she reached out gloved hands to search the body for clues.

Only to recoil with a yelp and fall back on her ass when the "body's" eyes slitted open, and he wheezed out a low groan.

Embla grasped the hilt of her blade frantically as she scramble to a crouched position. It wouldn't be the first time some undead Draugr or vampire thrall had popped up unexpectedly to start stabbing at her. But the stranger didn't move, didn't even moan again. Just stared out with half lidded eyes in an unseeing stupor. She suspected that he was in shock from the severe blood loss, not to mention that he was probably suffering from exposure as well. He had no cloak, no fur lining his gambeson or boots; even his leather gloves looked pathetically thin and totally inadequate. He was woefully unprepared for the harsh cold of Skyrim, even if it  _was_  in the middle of First Seed.

Embla relaxed, but was unsure of what to do next. For one, she wasn't exactly sure if the stranger was the cause of the lightning phenomena, or if he was a victim of it. She could heal him, but who was to say that he  _wasn't_  in league with vampires? Plus she needed to get back to Markarth to report back to Jarl Igmund on the Forsworn outposts and camps she had promised to scout for him. She didn't exactly have time to play nurse maid to a possible enemy while she carried out her duties as Thane,  _and_  as an agent for the Dawnguard.

Embla huffed in exasperation. She knew, even though she had good reasons not too, she just couldn't leave a man to die when she had the means to save him. That and her curiosity had yet to be satisfied. Gods damned insatiable beast that it was.

She moved next to the man, gently wrapping an arm around his shoulders and supporting his head as she laid him down flat on the frozen ground. She fumbled a bit as she pushed back her hood and unwrapped her thick scarf from around her head; sending her thick blonde braid tumbling over a shoulder. She folded the woolen material several times, then used it to cushion the injured man's head from the hard cold ground. Looking him over she couldn't see any lethal wounds, besides a large knot and deep gash on his scalp; head wounds could be tricky if left untreated. He suffered mostly from cuts, scrapes, and a nasty puncture wound on the back of his thigh. It was just that all the accumulated wounds put together had been too much for a body to handle. She had also noticed as she'd grasped his shoulders the left one was dislocated, but decided it could be left until she took care of his still bleeding head.

Embla extended both gloved hands towards his torn bruised flesh, cupping the air above him as she summoned her mana from within. Instantly, a bright golden stream of light flashed between her palms swirling into a tight ball of energy that looked like she held a small sun in her hands. It hummed and tinkled like a handful of tin bells, suffusing her palms with warmth. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she released the restoration spell over, and into the man; watching as his flesh fused back together, the cuts vanishing on his face and hands, and the swelling receded from where the scalp wound had been. It was sure to still leave a nasty scar but at least it would no longer leak. As her magicka coursed through him she noticed the sorry state of his ribs and took the time, and excessive energy, to pushing the bones into the correct position and knitting them back together. They gave a sickening popping sound as they were set in consecutive order. It was a relief to find that there was no severe internal damage, just a great deal of bruising.

Now that the worst was healed, Embla released her mana with a long exhale, and the light winked out instantly. She was no mage and her mana reserves were already exhausted, leaving her a bit weak and out of breath for a moment. She hunched over the stranger as she caught her breath and noticed that he breathed a little easier, and had settled into a more peaceful state of unconsciousness. While she could heal wounds there was no way she could replenish the amount of blood he had loss; it would take time, nourishment and rest for him to fully recover.

She scanned the area, wary of wolves and other predators who would eventually pick up the smell of blood. The last thing she needed was an attack from a hungry troll while her mana was depleted. She was also sure she wasn't the only one to see the red lightning strike, and thought to check it out. Forsworn were a prevalent danger in the Reach, especially in unsettled areas like the valley they were in. Embla puzzled over how to get her wounded charge out of this valley and to the nearest settlement, when she didn't have her horse on hand. She worried about leaving him to fetch her mount with the aforementioned predators and vicious Reachmen in the area. Also, they couldn't stay here. She had no supplies and he needed the warmth of a fire or the cold would sap what little strength he had left; but a fire would be a sure way to signal their location to any Forsworn in the area.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

Embla scrubbed her hand over her face, shaking off any residual fatigue and standing with a resolute manner. She laid down her weapons and unclasped the pin of her cloak, setting it aside and removed her heavy shearling coat dropping it as well. Embla stood in the chill wind in her heavy boots and leather trews with a long sleeved linen tunic and fur lined leather vest that was cinched tight to her waist by wide leather belt. Her only armor her leather and steel plated vambraces and greaves. She shivered for only a moment, her thick Nordic blood adjusting easily to the harsh clime; then moved into action.

Quickly she stood straddling the stranger’s waist, then crouching down low and drawing a hunting knife from her boot, cut the strap of the shield hanging from his dislocated left arm. She then braced the palm of his left hand against her right shoulder and took hold of his elbow to keep it locked straight. Taking her left hand, she firmly gripped the injured shoulder, and with a swift hard push down on his arm she popped it back in its socket with a wrenching crunch. She thanked Stendarr for the small mercy of the man's unconscious state, as he would have most likely shouted the mountains down after such treatment. As it was, he gave only a wince and a pained moan.

That taken care of, Embla covered him snugly in her coat and cloak as she bent to grab and unsheathe her longsword. Avoiding the disturbing tree shrine, she strode instead over to a line of saplings along the edge of the cliff just past the standing stones, and began hacking at the base of one.

"I sure hope you're worth all the trouble here stranger." She called back to the man who now owed her his life.

 

 


	3. "As long as there's no pants involved."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What? Lead? Me? No, no, no. No leading. Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I’m stranded somewhere without any pants."

_He was falling, surrounded by the eerie red light of a blazing tunnel. As if he were diving through an infernal pit. There was no sound, except a ringing in his ears. There was no smell of smoke or burning flesh. Perhaps because the flames never touched him, and though they closed in on him he felt no heat. Just the rush of gravity pulling him down head first, into an unknown hell; making it feel as if his stomach had dropped down to the vicinity of his knees. He could feel himself trying to scream, but again, no sound was heard. Just the forceful rush of breath leaving his lungs, until they ached and his throat felt hoarse._

_He could not move. His arms were locked at his sides and his legs felt stiff, pressed straight by the force of the air that pushed violently against him. All he could do was see what lay ahead. And he begged the Maker to take his sight from him as well._

_There was nothing for him but the yawning abyss below him. Neither drawing closer, nor pulling away from the black hole that lay at the end of the endless pit of fire. His vision was filled only by the dark maw that seemed to be devouring all the light around it. The swirling blaze of the circling walls around him were consumed by the nothingness as they came into contact._

_He felt with dreadful certainty that he would fall through this nightmare for an eternity. But if he reached the end, he would be consumed as well. Become nothing. There was no other feeling for him now but despair. And fear._

_Then out of the ringing silence... echoing laughter. Loud, blazing through his head. Singing more incessantly than the Calling ever had. And through that horrible mirth came a booming, bone chilling voice._

" _MORTAL..."_

* * *

 

Alistair awoke with a gasping breath, jerking quickly into an upright position. Causing pain to bloom through his body. With a curse and a groan, he flopped back down on his back.

_A dream. Though different than the usual darkspawn taint induced nightmares._

His breathing calmed, and his heart beat settled as the disturbing dream drifted from his consciousness. He laid back as his thoughts came into focus and he realized he was in unfamiliar surroundings.

Memory rushed back to Alistair, and he jerked half way up before again dropping back down; clutching his sore ribs, and gritting back another moan. The Fade, the Nightmare demon, fighting off hordes of giant spiders. Then, an explosion? Things got fuzzy after that. He remembered two moons (a vision most likely brought on from a concussion, and blood loss). Freezing cold (what with finding himself in the mountains surrounded by snow). A woman's voice (wishful thinking? Another hallucination?). All flavored with a healthy dose of pain.

Well...  _now_  it was more of a bone deep soreness, and not the anticipated pain from the abuse he'd gone through before he'd lost consciousness. The fact that he woke up at all seemed a wonder to Alistair.

_Not that I'm complaining._

Although, his mouth felt as though it had been stuffed full of cotton. Sweaty, moldy cotton...

He worked his tongue, mouth smacking open and closed, trying to work some saliva back into existence and get the taste of rotting cheese out. Grimacing his distaste, Alistair took stock of his surroundings with no little surprise. And a great deal of wariness.

_For all I know, I could still be in the Fade. Possibly with some nefarious demon playing around inside my head._

Last he knew, he had been nigh unto freezing (and bleeding) to death on some snowy cliff side in the middle of Maker-knows-where. Now, he lay warm and cozy in nothing but his smalls, covered by the thick furs of some unfortunate beast, on a small bed. With a fire burning cheerfully across from him the only light, giving the room he was in a warm but shadowy cast. With greater care, Alistair slowly sat up and swung his legs off the bed; planting his bare feet on the smooth worn wood of the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, slowly rotating his aching left shoulder; remembering it had been dislocated. Thankfully, he still had full mobility in the limb; after a little rest, and some exercise he'd be happily back to shield bashing baddies in no time.

Looking about, Alistair spied a larger bed on the other side of the big stone fireplace. The room he was in was large, lined with bookshelves filled with tomes and personal affects. A heavy wooden door stood firmly shut just to his left, at the foot of his bed and directly across from the hearth. The far side of the room looked to be a designated office space, with a desk covered in paperwork, quills and ink bottles. There was a small round table with a set of chairs on his side of the room and a large cast iron pot over the fire, bubbling with something that smelled heavenly. All-in-all, it was a cozy little cottage; made of smooth rounded river rock walls and a high vaulted thatched roof. No windows interrupted the surrounding stone walls, but weak sunlight leaked through wooden venting slats that ran vertically just above where the stone wall ended to meet the roof's wood paneled gable. He couldn't tell if it was dusk or dawn with how little light managed to sneak into the darker closed off room.

Running a hand through his hair, he was pleased to feel that there was no longer a large lump with blood gushing out. Just a thin raised line, an inch below his hairline that ran from just to the right side of the center of his forehead, diagonally across his scalp to just above his right ear. His hair actually felt clean too, and that made him notice that the rest of him was clean as well. Alistair flushed with embarrassment at the realization that someone had stripped and bathed him while he was unconscious. And he couldn't help but take a minute to envision some beautiful young woman thoroughly tending...

 _Hah! If only! But more likely it had been some grizzled old lady with no teeth._ He had to quickly interrupt his musings with a shake of his sore head, promptly making him hiss in pain and hang the poor thing down between his knees and into his palms. What he needed right now was a good healing potion, and a bucket full of nice cool, clean water to wash it down.

But beside his state of undress, his achy body and sore head, he was glad to see that he was whole and hale. There wasn't even any scabs from healing wounds, and Alistair wondered if maybe a mage had seen to his injuries. It seemed the most likely scenario, that or he'd been unconscious for a great deal longer than he thought. Though, as a Warden, he did tend to heal more quickly than the average person anyway.

Peeking out from between his fingers, his eye caught a glint in the corner across from his bed. Curious, Alistair sat up again and was surprised to see that it was Duncan's shield he saw propped against the wall. Significantly more battered, and the griffin emblazoned in blue at the center somewhat faded, it was still a sight for sore eyes.

With a sigh of relief and a half smile twisting his lips, Alistair slowly and shakily stood and shuffled over to the one familiar thing he'd seen since waking. As he bent to pick up the shield with only a low grunt of discomfort, he noticed that it had also been cleaned of blood and spider bits. He'd have to thank his mysterious rescuer whenever he finally met him.

 _And after proficient thanks are given, I can ask him how to get to Skyhold from whatever location the Fade decided to spit me out from._ With all the cold, snow and mountains he had seen before passing out he was thinking the Frostbacks' was the most likely location. Though he wasn't personally familiar with the area he did have a general knowledge from viewing maps and Warden reports on the mountain range; if his host would point him in the right direction he should be able to find his way from there.

With the threat of Corypheus, and the unknown fate of the Inquisitor and his fellow Wardens at Adamant hovering over his head, it was imperative that he make haste to the Inquisition's outpost. Or at least send word of his survival, and whereabouts. With no other senior Grey Wardens to take up command, the responsibility would fall to Alistair in leading those left in Ferelden. And though the thought of leadership had once before made his skin crawl with unease, he knew now that he could no longer run from his obligations. Not to his fellow Wardens, and not to the people of Thedas. The part played by his brothers-in-arms in the start of all this crazy Breach nugshit weighed heavily on him. And looking down at Duncan's shield, Alistair could practically hear his mentor's voice urging him to avenge the order, and restore honor to the Grey. Would he be able to redeem the name of the Grey Wardens? Would they ever be trusted again after the havoc they had caused in the name of stopping future Blights? He didn't know, but he needed to find his way to Weisshaupt to warn the First Warden about the danger posed by Corypheus, and his ability to control the Calling.

Alistair froze at that last thought. His body tense, and his senses straining. The Calling...

_It's gone._

Where once it sang incessantly, a jarring melody, both enchanting and disturbing, now... only... silence.

_So we succeeded in stopping Corypheus' plan to control the Wardens, right?_

But it felt like more than that. Even before the false Calling, Alistair had become familiar with the buzz of the taint constantly humming in the back of his mind. A white noise that he had become desensitized to until Corypheus had increased it in both volume and pitch to incite the Wardens to mass terror. But now... he heard nothing.

He felt no different; though the song was gone, he could still feel the strength bestowed upon him with the joining ritual pumping through his veins. It aided in his healing, he knew, and...

A loud growling noise that tapered off into a whining grumble filled the room, and Alistair clutched a hand to his empty protesting stomach with a rueful smile.

And it still played a major role in his appetite.

His gaze veered to the mystery stew that bubbled alluringly over the fire, and his mouth watered. Alistair was still amazed at how the demands of his stomach could quickly diffuse any personal crisis he found himself in, and how it always put things into perspective.

_An order of attack was called for! Food first, possibly life altering questions after._

_It was hard to think clearly on an empty stomach._

Shield still in hand, he walked stiffly towards the delicious aroma of stewed meat and vegetables, aching muscles protesting the entire way.

 _Hopefully my host won't mind me having just a quick taste._ He thought as he grabbed up a large wooden spoon lying on a plate upon the hearth, obviously having been used to stir the pot.

_I wonder if they have any cheese._

Just as Alistair was dipping the spoon in the thick meaty broth, the front door opened with a gust of icy wind that made the fire jump and embers fly up around him. Freezing Alistair in place as he was bent over the pot.

"Aaaah..." Was his eloquent reply to being caught red handed, as he looked guiltily over his shoulder.

A woman stood in the doorway, holding a bundle of clothing and what looked to be his armor in her arms. A decidedly tall, blonde and beautiful woman. Her pale hair was split down the middle in two braids that draped over each shoulder, long enough to reach down past her ribs. A hairstyle that would have looked childish if not for the obviously feminine countenance, and curves on her tall lean frame. Loose uneven strands had escaped her thick plaits to curve inward and frame a face that looked both strong and delicate at the same time. A combination of both soft curves and harsh angles that gave her an exotic look with such light coloring. Her brows, a few shades darker than her hair, arched gracefully over the palest blue eyes he had ever seen. Eyes framed by thick golden lashes, with an upward tilt at the corners. A nose, straight and small, her mouth full and lush; an incredible contrast to her high, proud cheekbones and hard squared jawline.

_I've died, and the Maker's Bride has come to take me._

All Alistair could do was stare with his mouth hanging open, and make a complete fool of himself; and it wasn’t until one of those graceful brows rose and an amused expression crossed her features that he realized he was crouched before this lovely creature sans pants.

With a yelp, he whirled about to face the woman, dropping the incriminating spoon and bringing up his previously forgotten shield to defend what little dignity he had left. Which only morphed the woman’s mild amusement into outright laughter, a rich throaty sound, and Alistair's face felt as though it was on fire.

Gathering his pride, Alistair stood up straight, squaring his shoulders all while keeping Duncan's shield firmly in place before him. The woman's laughter hadn't quite stopped yet so he had to clear his throat a few times to gain her attention.

"I beg your pardon mistress, I was taken by surprise and didn't mean to..." Alistair trailed off, when upon hearing him speak the woman's laughs suddenly cut off and a hard suspicious look took its place.

"What? Oh! Errr... look I was just checking to see if the stew was done. Honest!" He babbled as her eyes narrowed.

"Du er ikke herfra er du?" Was her incomprehensible reply.

"Excuse me?" Maybe he'd heard wrong. Or he'd hit his head harder than he'd thought.

"Dette blir bare bedre og bedre." Said the woman with a resigned sigh as she used her heel to kick the door closed behind her and stepped further into the room.

 _Nope! Still don't understand a word!_ His own expression took on a grim cast.

"Nothing is ever easy, is it?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized something. I had Alistair try and lead (you know, take charge in the Fade), and now he's lost without pants... good job brain for the unconscious realization of that particular prophecy.  
> I hope I portray Alistair correctly in my story. I worry that I might not do him justice.  
>  


	4. "Uh-oh. I'm terrible at puzzles."

"This just keeps getting better, and better." Embla sighed in resigned exasperation, as she shut the door behind her. Closing her in the dimly lit cabin with a suddenly grim faced foreigner.  
She was feeling pretty grim herself. It looked like she wouldn't be getting those answers she wanted any time soon.  
Walking over to the rumpled bed he'd been using, she set down her load of clothing and armor; keeping a surreptitious eye on the stranger. The awkward meeting, and hilarious fumbling of earlier had relieved her suspicions somewhat; but that, in no way, meant she trusted him.  
Embla faced him and gestured casually to the pile of garments.  
"Clo~thes." She said slowly, carefully enunciating the word for him, and feeling a bit foolish for doing so.  
Damn n'wah!  
Despite her aggravation her lips twitched, and she fought a smile, as she saw him still standing before the hearth with that large squared shield; guarding his loins like some virgin monk of Arkay, visiting a temple of Dibella.  
She saw no reason for his modesty. Nords were a practical race, and nudity was not something her people found shameful. Neither did he have any reason to feel ashamed. He was quite attractive. With the hard muscular build of a seasoned warrior and the look of a man who had seen his fair share of strife and conflict. Though he was hunched a bit over the shield and shadowed with the hearth's light at his back, she remembered well his features from bathing him and tending to his wounds earlier.  
Once she had washed away the gore and sweat that had practically covered him from head to toe, she'd found a man that seemed practically gilded in gold, from the thick dark honey blonde hair on his head to the slightly sun kissed complexion of his skin. Out of curiosity she had peeled back his eyelids to find that even his eyes had a warm amber sheen. An unusual combination, for most Nords had hair of light blonde or shades of red, with blue eyes; and fairly pale skin on top of that. Such exotic coloring should have clued her in to his foreign origins, but she had figured him for an Imperial or Breton; although it might have been an unusual look for them as well, as those she had met were dark haired and short by Nord standards. This man, on the other hand, was fairly tall; at least a hand taller than Embla herself. So he could be Nord, or someone of mixed heritage. Though, when thinking on it, she had seen some Altmer who had similar golden coloring, and were as tall as any Nord; but that seemed his only likeness to those cursed Mer, for he was most definitely human.  
Shoving the question of his origins aside she had continued examining him for any injuries she might have missed, and she had seen that he was no stranger to battle. Scars marred the smooth, hard (and surprisingly hairless) flesh of his chest and abdomen. Some old, like what looked to have been deep cut from sword or dagger along his right side, just above his hip bone. Some more resent, as with the ones she had inexpertly healed in her rush to stop his bleeding. His hands were large, scarred and callused from wielding both sword and shield in combat. He had lines of care upon his brow and wariness around his eyes, and even unconscious his mouth was cast downward and his face wore an expression of concern. As though, even in his dreams he found no escape from harsh reality.  
Embla had met many men with such a war hardened look about them. Most of them mercenaries or Imperial soldiers, thrust into battle after battle for either coin or the misguided honor of Emperor and country. With his short cropped hair and the light stubble of one usually clean shaven, Embla thought it possible that he was a soldier; seeing as they were groomed in a similar fashion. Plus his legs were strong and his feet callused as one might expect of someone who traveled regularly, and on foot.  
Looking back now at all her conjectures, she was frustrated by the fact that she couldn't even ask him even the simplest of questions. Never had she met someone who could not speak common Tamrielic. All races of Tamriel knew the standard tongue, even the Altmer of the Aldmeri Dominion learned the heathen language of the Empire. It was standard in all trade and diplomacy. It seemed almost impossible for someone to be able to survive without even a rudimentary understanding of the Imperial vernacular.  
Embla stared hard at the stranger for a good long time, until he began shifting uncomfortably under her scrutiny.  
He was far from home, indeed.  
"Clothes." She said again, this time clipped and short with a pointed finger at said articles.  
Without further comment, she stepped purposefully towards the man. Or rather, towards the hearth directly behind him. She watched as he tensed at her approach, and color crept up his neck at her proximity. Embla casually brushed past him, kneeling down to take up the discarded cooking utensil, and watched as he sidled nervously away. Keeping his shielded front facing her the entire time.  
"Ah... Taip, drabužiai ... ačiū." He babbled haltingly, as he shuffled backwards towards the bed and her offering.  
Pleased that he had at least understood that much, she turned her back to him to give him some privacy as she gathered up spoon and bowl and began dishing out a large helping of rabbit stew. Listening intently as she heard the thump of his shield hitting the floor and the quick rustling sounds as he rushed to dress himself while she wasn't looking.  
Embla had to again stifle her amusement at his antics, and had to bite her lip to keep the smile from her face as she turned to place the bowl on the small round table close by the fire. She pulled out a chair and looked over to him as he was just pulling down the woolen tunic she had brought for him over his abdomen. Now that he was wearing pants, he seemed more self-assured, standing up straight with shoulders back as his eyes followed her every move. With an approving nod she gestured to the chair before moving about the cupboards and shelves to gather ale and bread, setting them down beside his bowl.  
He watched her silently, an unreadable expression on his face, as she stilled and waited patiently for him to sit and accept her hospitality.  
Slowly, holding her gaze, his head dipped in a shallow bow before walking stiffly to the table and sitting down. He only had to look up slightly from his seated position to meet her eyes, his expression serious and intent.  
"Ačiū." He said slowly.  
He'd said that before, she realized, and looking into his somber amber colored eyes she realized he was saying "thank you".  
"You are welcome." She told him just as seriously. Taking a deep breath she raised a hand to rest lightly upon his shoulder. Embla lifted her free hand to point at her chest and regarded him expectantly as she said slowly and very simply:  
"Embla"  
She watched as understanding crossed his features, and his sober demeanor melted away before her eyes as he smiled in a lopsided fashion she found instantly endearing. His brow smoothed and relaxed and his eyes narrowed slightly as he smiled, revealing the deep laugh lines at their corners. Indicating that he was one who smiled often.  
"Embla" He repeated slowly. "Ačiū Embla."  
He brought up one of his own hands to point at himself and his lips twitched in a self-deprecating expression.  
"Alistair" He said just as simply and slowly. His gaze never leaving hers, and for a moment she felt caught in their golden depths as a strange feeling of significance seemed to attach itself to this moment in time.  
But the feeling dissipated quickly, and Embla squeezed his shoulder lightly in acknowledgement; giving him her own slow warm smile in return.  
"Alistair"

* * *

  
Night had settled fully upon the small mining settlement of Karthwasten by the time Embla left Alistair to rest. Offering him some privacy to wash up and attend to personal business. She giggled in remembering the look of horrified embarrassment when she had pointed out the chamber pot that had been placed under his bed.  
Embla awkwardly shut the cabin's door behind her as she juggled an armload of stew, bread and a bottle of alto wine. She had already shared a meal with Alistair at his insistence, or what she assumed was an invitation to do so by his enthusiastic gesticulations; but the food was not for herself.  
Stepping to the right of the cabins entry, she followed the railed porch to a broad covered deck that sat along the entire side of the cabin, and was open on all three sides to provide a view of both the mine and the road leading into the settlement. A vast portion of the deck was taken up by a long wooden table in the middle that had bench seating on both sides.  
Sitting at the table, surrounded by empty ink bottles, papers, ore samples and a multitude of slowly melting candles was Ainethach. A dark haired Breton of middling age with a receding hairline, and an elaborately trimmed pair of mutton chops. His nose was red from the cold, though he was dressed in fine thick quilted robes, wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak and sat close to a brightly glowing brazier.  
"Something to warm those weak Breton insides, my friend?" Embla joked in greeting.  
Ainethach sat up from his paperwork, laying down his quill with a tired smile of welcome as she approached and set the food before him; pushing papers and silver ore aside to make space before taking a seat across from him. She made a show of throwing off her own cloak (new, as her last one was soiled beyond recovery), and rolling up her sleeves.  
"I thank you Embla. As always, it is a pleasure to eat a meal not of my own making." He exclaimed with a good-natured smile. Promptly uncorking the wine and taking a long swallow straight from the bottle before offering it back to her. "And my weak insides also thank you for the wine!"  
"It's the least I can do when you've offered up your home to me and my injured friend." She nodded her thanks as she took the bottle for her own swig of the tart, sweet white wine.  
Ainethach cast her a curious look as he took up his spoon in one hand and hunk of crusty bread in the other.  
"Friend now, is he? I thought you said you'd found him bloodied and freezing along the cliffs of the Druadach highlands just Northeast of here." His brow arched questioningly at her before he dug into his meal.  
Embla grunted, taking another drink of wine and passing it back to Ainethach.  
"I feel we'll get on as well." She replied offhandedly, leaning forward and resting her folded arms on the table.  
"Oh? Is he awake?" At Embla's nod his eyebrows rose in surprise. "Already? From the look of him, when you'd brought him in last night, I'd have figured he'd be out for at least another day."  
"I thought so too." Embla frowned. "He's been awake for over an hour now, and walking about on his own."  
Even with what little healing magic she had performed on Alistair, it should have taken him at least another day or so before he'd be able to walk as well as he did now.  
"An impressively hearty constitution!" Ainethach did look considerably impressed. "Has he said how he ended up so close to the shores of Aetherius? I'll lay my coin on it being those bloody Reachmen." He said sourly.  
Embla sighed, lifting a hand to rest her brow heavily upon it.  
"Actually, therein lies the problem." She intoned sullenly. "He can't say."  
Ainethach paused with a stew soaked chunk of bread halfway to his mouth.  
"What do you mean? Are you being purposefully cryptic?" He asked in a deadpan voice. "Has the poor man lost his tongue?"  
Her lips quirked at his tone  
"No~o." Embla drawled out the word, rolling her eyes. "I mean that he doesn't speak Tamrielic."  
This time Ainethach paused in chewing, and gaped at her in shock, showing a disgusting amount of masticated food.  
At her look of revulsion he quickly clamped his jaw shut with a snap, snatching up the wine and chugging down a number of swallows to wash down his meal. He purposefully slammed the bottle down loudly on the table and glared at Embla.  
"You must be joking." He warned. "Where was the s'wit raised? Under a rock?"  
Embla raised a brow mockingly.  
"That's funny, coming from someone who makes his living underneath rocks."  
"Well, what does he speak then? Bristleback?" Ainethach threw his hands up in exasperation. "Everyone knows the common tongue! That's why it's called common!"  
Embla sat up straight setting her arms akimbo as she frowned worriedly at her friend.  
"That's just it, Ainethach." She brought up one hand to scrub warily at her face. "I have no idea what language he speaks."  
Ainethach settled back down, crossing his arms over his chest regarding her seriously.  
"That's disconcerting. A true foreigner then." His brow gathered in concern. "He hasn't done anything unseemly I hope? Was he violent?"  
"No, not at all. More the opposite actually. Seems a complete gentleman in fact." She assured him. "A rare thing out here."  
"You insult me, Embla." He intoned archly. "You have a perfect gentleman sitting here before you."  
Embla gave an unladylike snort, and stood up with a laugh.  
She moved to lean against the decks railing, looking out into the night, towards the torch lit entrance of the mine and thinking on the last hour she had spent in the foreigner's... in Alistair's company.  
It had been entertaining to say the least.  
After they had introduced themselves he had begun shoveling stew into his mouth at an alarming rate. Gesturing and voicing his approval of both food and drink with loud, inappropriate moans and rubbing his belly. After emptying the bowl, he'd handed it back to her motioning towards the pot and back to the bowl.  
“Daugiau prašau." He'd said slowly. "Prašau." Which she took to mean he was asking for seconds.  
After refilling his bowl, Alistair had resumed wolfing it down as though it was his first. Again, he'd handed it back to her and repeated "Prašau," prettily, with an innocent batting of his eyes.  
She'd laughed at his silliness, and again refilled his bowl. Which he'd, again, promptly demolished.  
"Prašau."  
"Prašau."  
"Prašau."  
With each refill, Embla's eyes had grown wider, and wider. Until she was gaping slack jawed before a nearly empty pot of stew. Looking over her shoulder at this bottomless pit in the form of a man, she couldn't help but wonder where it all went. She'd never seen a man eat so much!  
He had slowed down by that time and was lazily licking the spoon and sopping up whatever dregs he could find at the bottom of the bowl with a chunk of bread. Looking quite content.  
That is, until he'd noticed her staring at him in absolute amazement. That was when he had insisted on her eating as well. His face red with embarrassment as he gestured wildly for her to sit down and take her own bowl of stew.  
"Atsiprašau!" He'd kept telling her with an apologetic look. Not so much unlike the look of a contrite puppy. And she couldn't help but smile and laugh at his antics.  
It was lucky she'd saved enough stew for Ainethach, really. She just hoped that he wouldn't ask for seconds.  
Embla chuckled at the memory as she turned to face Ainethach; leaning back against the rail with her arms draped over the sides.  
"I'll take him back with me to Markarth." She stated boldly. Making her friend's eyes widen and brows rise in shock.  
"Are you sure Embla?" He asked after a moment. Brows snapping back down as he frowned in concern. "You barely know him, and it's not unlike you don't have your own fair share of problems."  
"He's harmless, Ainethach." She assured him.  
He cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly, giving her a mocking look that just screamed "Really?" in that snobby Breton tone that he had.  
How did he do that?  
"Ugh! Okay! I meant that he obviously doesn't mean me any harm. Alright?" She rolled her eyes at him and crossed her arms defensively as she glared his way.  
"If you're sure..." He drew out in a doubtful tone.  
Embla sighed and tugged lightly at one of her braids in a frustrated gesture.  
"Well, it's the most sensible solution to finding out where he's from and how he got out here, isn't it? There are scholars in the city, and other foreigners he might be able to talk to." She threw a hand up, exasperated. "And I can't leave him out here. He'd starve to death!"  
"Huh?" Ainethach gave her a questioning look at that last comment.  
"Look, the point is, I saved his life." She said, blandly stating the obvious.  
Ainethach cocked that cocky eyebrow at her again, setting her teeth on edge.  
"And~" He drew out, waving his hand before him in an encouraging motion.  
"And," Embla bit out glaring at him. "I feel a bit responsible for him now. I can't just set him loose, all unprepared. It'd be an absolute waste of all my efforts!"  
She, again, crossed her arms and leaned her head back. Staring at the roughhewn beams that supported the covered deck with a contemplative air.  
"He can't speak common," She quietly reiterated. "He's obviously lost. If I just send him on his way now he'll wonder aimlessly in the mountains, or get killed by murdering Forsworn, or robbed of what little he has by bandits. Stomped into the ground by ice trolls! Sucked dry by Vampires! Torn apart by Wer-"  
"I can see now you're just vomiting random justifications for your decision." Ainethach interjected dryly.  
"Shut it."  
"Well, when do you and your new helpless friend plan to leave?" He asked in a more serious manner.  
"Day after tomorrow, if Alistair feels up to it." Already she was making a mental list of the supplies she would need to pack for the journey home.  
Definitely need to double the amount of food.  
"Alistair?" Ainethach gave her a curious look. "You've taken to naming strange men you find in the wild now?"  
"Pfft! No!" Embla walked back to the table and began gathering up the empty bowl and wine bottle. "He's obviously smart enough to introduce himself. I might be able to teach some basic vocabulary. You know, he might still be awake. You could introduce yourself to him, and work in the comfort and warmth of your own home."  
"I wouldn't want to intrude upon your newly budding friendship Em."  
"You're ridiculous. Just go to bed, it's getting late."  
"I believe I've offered you my bed, sweetling." Ainethach smirked at her teasingly.  
"Ugh! I thought you said you were a gentleman."  
"You wound me, dear Embla!" He exclaimed with an expression of feigned hurt. Gloved hand clenching over his heart. "I meant that you take my bed and I'll bunk down with the miners. Get your mind out of the midden girl!"  
Embla laughed at his teasing, leaning over to playfully bat at his arm; and he in turn mockingly flinched from the blow.  
With dishes in hand, Embla turned to head back inside. Just as she was about to turn the corner she stopped to face Ainethach again.  
"Thank you, Ainethach. I owe you one." She smiled at him affectionately.  
"That's nonsense, and you know it, Em." He scoffed. "After all the years you've kept the Forsworn off my doorstep, and the Silverbloods off my back; I'd say it was about time I returned the favor."  
"As I'm heavily invested in your silver mines, I think it's more of a looking out for my own interests."  
"So mercenary!" He cried out in a shocked tone.  
"You're such a s'wit."


	5. "Makers breath! But I do miss that woman."

_He awoke to the sounds of whimpering. A soft mewling noise, weak and frightened, pulling him slowly into consciousness. Images of fire and blood dissipating like smoke rising into the atmosphere, until it was nothing but a vague memory of fear and rage._

_His eyes opened slowly to gaze at the canopy of stars that sparkled like diamond dust against the black void of the night sky. Vision framed all around by the out-stretched branches of towering pines and leafy oaks._

_He felt disoriented at first as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and the cold sweat off his brow. Not immediately recognizing his whereabouts as he looked around at the quiet camp._

_Camp?_ _Ah. Yes, now he remembered. They had stopped to rest for the night after making a hard trek to distance themselves from the doomed town of Lothering._

_Canvas, and hide shelters were raised in a half circle a safe distance from the campfire. Each one was set up differently dependent on its owner's preference; with one in particular that was separate and isolated in the farthest corner of the clearing he and his companions had found suitable enough to pitch their tents. He himself had no tent, but a pallet that he had placed close to the fire; as he enjoyed feeling the wind that rustled through the trees, and disliked the idea of being caught unaware and ill prepared inside sweltering canvas walls._

_A sentiment that had obviously been emulated._

_He again heard a faint sob, and turned about to see someone resting on their own pallet a few feet away from him. Woolen blankets were twisted about a small frame, which flinched every so often at some unseen terror being faced in the Fade._

_A common scene of any sleeping Warden. Most likely one he had played out himself only moments ago before the cries of the Orders newest member had risen him from his equally troubled slumber._

_Pity bade him to return the favor. He could empathize with being newly initiated to the unsavory aspects of becoming a Grey Warden, especially one during the Blight; and he thought it high time for a full disclosure._

_Fully awake now, he crawled the short distance to his companion, reaching out to gently shake a delicate shoulder; and feeling like a bumbling giant next to someone so small and frail looking. He'd seen his share of elves, having worked with them in the stables of Redcliffe; as well as training and fighting darkspawn beside them as brothers and sisters of the Order. It was just that this particular elf seemed too innocent and fragile, having only recently been released from the Cirlce. Though, in the short time he had known his new sister-in-arms, he had witnessed in her a core of steel that belied the porcelain fine fragility of her exquisite features._

_"Neria, it's okay." He whispered soothingly. Surreptitiously brushing silky strands of cinnamon red curls back from petal smooth cheeks, her skin shining bright as the moon in the dark. She was pale and panting quietly, with a sheen of sweat gleaming on her furrowed brow. It seemed to him a grave injustice to subject someone so young and fair to the horrors she no doubt witnessed while wondering the Fade. Not just as a mage, but now also as a Warden. But with the Blight suddenly stalking the lands of Ferelden, she would not be the first, nor the last, exposed to its corruption._

_Though he feared his pity diminished her efforts somehow. For all her petite beauty, she was an accomplished practitioner of the arcane arts and had been a boon in every altercation since their introduction. And after the battle at Ostegar, with the loss of his mentor and his fellow Wardens, men and women he had considered family; he was not sure how he would have made it this far without her. For she had instilled within him a sense of purpose. Picking him up at his lowest and urging him to continue, so that those he lost would not have died in vain._

_"Wake up Neria." Again, he gently smoothed back her curling tresses, thinking on how she resembled a small flame; bright illuminating warmth in the darkness, with such a deceptively fierce nature._

_"Neria,"_

_Or maybe a rose. Like the one he'd found in Lothering; an elegant sentinel, a beautifully proud witness to ensuing chaos. Maybe, just maybe, the Maker's reminder that beauty and light can still be found in the darkest of times…_

_"Wake up."_

_"Alistair."_

* * *

Alistair opened his eyes, half expecting to gaze up into luminous green orbs sparkling with long forgotten love and laughter.

Instead he was greeted with the icy blue amusement of more recent memory smiling down at him, and he could not help the pang of sadness that pierced his chest. Like ice cold talons tearing into his heart.

A pain he had been able to dismiss to the farthest reaches of his consciousness for many years now. It made him grimace and squeeze his eyes shut again in an effort to banish the emotions that momentarily choked him; lodging a familiar keen in his throat.

"Alistair?" Embla's concerned whisper hovered over him, and a cool callused hand pressed against his brow.

Alistair opened his eyes again with a nod at the girl, taking a deep breath to gather himself and clearing his throat as he made to sit up on the narrow bed.

Embla stepped back to give him some room and watched him curiously with one brow raised in question.

"I'm fine." He said tiredly, holding a hand up and nodding as he swung his feet to the floor. But still, he couldn't look into her eyes just yet. Afraid she would bear witness to the emotional mess twisting his insides.

Alistair sat a moment with his elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging down between his legs, as he stared at the worn wood of the cabin floor beneath his feet. It had been a long time since he'd dreamt of _Her_. Just the whisper of her name in his dreams was enough to crush the air from his lungs, and leave a burning grit in his eyes.

Lately, the false Calling and Corypheus had taken up much of his thoughts; and usually his dreams consisted mostly of darkspawn, the Deep Roads, and fiery death. Not much room for anything else in that sense, and he wondered briefly if he hadn't been visited by some demon of sorrow or regret, intent on ringing the awful emotions from his soul; of which he had in abundance.

A cool slender hand grasped one of his own, and he looked up at Embla as she wrapped his chilled fingers around a gray glazed pottery mug. Warmth seeped into his skin from the hot herbal concoction that steamed inside.

"Thank you," He told her, trying to give her a reassuring smile before taking a sip of the bitter, slightly sweetened tea.

She didn't look reassured.

It angered him that he could still be laid so low by the mere memory of her. Ten years and he still mourned. The absence of _her_ still a festering wound that threatened to tear and bleed with just the faintest caress.

After the Blight, he'd been able to stay busy with his duties to the Wardens. Eliminating the remaining darkspawn in Ferelden, recruiting for the Order, and any other random assignments he'd been able to take. Then he'd had that whole mystery surrounding King Maric's disappearance. He'd felt a strange filial obligation to investigate the rumors of his survival, and maybe some curiosity concerning his own origins. After all, what orphan boy didn't wish to meet his father?

It was how he'd met up again with Isabela, and through her was introduced to Varric Tethras after that mess in Kirkwall. And through those connections, was able to make contact with Hawke in regards to his investigation of Corypheus and the false Calling.

Keeping busy. Returning to his duties amongst the Wardens. Stopping Corypheus. All things he should be working towards, not dwelling on the past. It had no bearing on the present, and would change nothing.

With a frustrated scowl, Alistair took his free hand and roughly scrubbed at his face. Rubbing and pressing at his eyes and mouth with hard knuckles. Pushing back the ghost of her. Forcing himself to concentrate on the problems he had to tackle here and now.

He hazarded a glance at Embla, and found her watching him with a worried frown. Her arms crossed as she waited for him to pull himself together.

What he needed was some way to communicate with her. It was odd that she couldn't speak common. He'd never met anyone who didn't know even a few broken phrases of the King's tongue. Though it wasn't unheard of. Alistiar figured that the Fade must have spat him out in some isolated rural area of Orlais, or even as far as Tevinter. Of course, whatever dialect Embla spoke didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before. Not that he was proficient in any other languages, besides a few Orlesian curses he'd learned from a fellow Warden.

He knew there were others who lived and worked near Embla's cabin. He could hear them outside, calling out to each other even now. There was the neighing of horses as they pulled heavy carts, and the continuous thunking sounds of someone splitting wood close by; but he had yet to meet anyone else. He suspected they didn't speak common either, or he probably would have seen them by now.

At least Embla was a perceptive woman. She seemed to be able to tell his moods and what he was trying to convey from his inept hand gestures and body language. Even now, she somehow knew that he needed a moment to gather himself; not crowding him or pressing him to action.

Alistair drank the rest of the tea in one quick gulp and managed to muster up a more sincere smile of gratitude for his hostess. His emotions finally under some semblance of control.

Embla watched him a moment longer before stepping toward him to take back the mug, then turned without comment to begin dishing out a bowl of some sort of gruel from the pot over the fire. Setting it on the table accompanied by what looked like jars of honey and butter and a jug of milk.

Alistair watched her move about the small space, noticing that she hadn't let her own emotions show through. No signs of pity or disgust at his weakness that he could see. And he was infinitely grateful. He was sure he'd made enough of a fool of himself the evening before.

With a deep fortifying breath, Alistair began pulling on his socks and boots; as he'd worn only his breeches to bed. The heavy boots were now cleaned of blood, but the leather was stained with dark blotches after his recent trip to the Fade. He then picked up off the floor the grey woolen tunic he'd worn yesterday, pulling it over his head grumbling a bit at the itchy fabric.

He'd rested enough. There was no way for him to determine how long he'd been unconscious (as there was no way for him to ask), so his main concern right now was finding out where he was in relation to where he _needed_ to be.

He stood and stretched carefully, relieved that he was nowhere near as sore as he had been the previous evening. He should be able to set out tomorrow for the nearest Inquisition outpost, provided he could somehow find a way to ask for directions and supplies for the journey.

_The wonders of what a decent meal and a good night's sleep can do for a Warden._

With that thought, Alistair moved to the table to sit where Embla had indicated, and without further prompting tucked into his breakfast eagerly.

Gruel was surprisingly good when paired with milk and honey, but he noticed Embla watching him curiously as she sat down to her own meal across from him; and he couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious. It made him sit up straighter and try not to chew with his mouth open.

He thought maybe he should limit himself a bit too, as he debated on whether or not to ask for more after he finished his first bowl. It wouldn't do to empty the woman's larder without some kind of compensation. But his stomach growled in protest at the very thought, so he glanced a bit sheepishly at the girl as he handed her his bowl with a pleading glance at the still full pot by the hearth. He could tell she was trying not to laugh at him, as she dished him out a second helping.

He was on his third bowl and still trying to plan the best (and least embarrassing) way to communicate his needs, when the door burst open without warning. Which had Alistair instantly on his feet and ready to chuck his chair at the intruder, who stumbled to an alarmed halt just inside the doorway.

"Alistair! Vente!"

Alistair froze, chair lifted up off the floor, and jerked his head quickly to Embla at her cry. She was standing as well with her palm held out to stay Alistair's hand, her face twisting for a moment with an array of different emotions before breaking out into a large grin and bursting into howling laughter.

Surprised now and somewhat embarrassed (again), Alistair dropped the chair with a clatter back to the floor and looked towards the stranger at the door.

The man gave a disgruntled huff before he too smiled in amusement. Saying something to Embla in their strange language with a mocking tone.

He wasn't a very tall man, a good hand shorter than Alistair himself. A few inches shorter than Embla as well. He had dark brown hair that had receded so far back that his scalp was exposed and shining in the firelight. Though he seemed to be making up for the lack by growing probably the most ridiculous set of mutton chops Alistair had ever seen.

It took him a moment to drag his attention away from the "interesting" display of facial hair, to study the rest of the man.

He carried no weapon that Alistair could see, though he could have one hidden somewhere among all the clothing he was bundled in. He wore a thick green quilted coat of a fine material, embroidered at the cuffs, collar and all along the bottom. Cinched low on his hips with a supple looking, wide, tooled leather belt. Which, incidentally matched his light, fur-trimmed boots. Over all that was draped a heavy furred cloak, which didn't seem to match anything at all. But from the redness of his cheeks and nose, it looked like the most sensible article he wore.

He looked like some kind of merchant, a busy one at that; as his arms were loaded down with loose papers and scrolls. A heavy leather bound book was tucked under his arm and he balanced quills and ink bottles in both hands.

He and Embla seemed well acquainted, if the friendly smiles and gentle ribbing that was no doubt taking place was any indication. If he read their tone of speech and gestures correctly, that is.

The "Merchant", or whatever, gave a snort at something Embla said and strode over to the desk on the other side of the room. He was quick to drop his burden and pull off his cloak, throwing it on the larger bed on the other side of the hearth; before he came to sit at one of the table's empty chairs between Alistair's and Embla's. Just making himself right at home, as Embla dished him out a bowl and continued speaking to him in a joking manner; as though sharing her meals with him were a common occurrence.

Alistair slowly returned to his own chair, watching the exchange with no small degree of curiosity. The man treated his surroundings and spoke to Embla with a sense of long familiarity.

It made him wonder at their relationship. He didn't look to be related to the tall blond, and the difference in their choice in clothing spoke of a contrast in personalities and social backgrounds.

While the man wore elaborate, expensive looking attire, Embla was dressed in a simpler style. Wearing no-nonsense heavy boots and buff leather trews with a darker, leather, form fitting vest over a long sleeved linen tunic; her only accessories to the outfit being a pair of studded leather bracers that covered her forearms from wrist to elbows, and a wicked looking knife sheathed and strapped to her right thigh. She had the look of one who travelled often and put little thought into what she wore besides, its function.

For all those differences, they seemed to be close. Good friends, or long term lovers, he couldn't say; and he supposed it was rude to jump to any conclusions. It was just that the man acted as though he owned the place, and he'd been fairly certain that the cabin belonged to Embla.

It gave him the uncomfortable thought that he could be taking up a lot of personal time with, possibly, another man's wife. Especially considering that it was most likely Embla who had undressed and bathed him while he was unconscious.

_That would make things awkward!_

He could tell he was blushing from the heat creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with his proximity to the fire. Thankfully, neither of his companions could ask the reason for his flushed features as they both glanced at him curiously after a lull in their conversation.

The merchant, sitting to Alistair's right, turned to face him full on; a somewhat mocking half smile on his face and cocking one eyebrow at him that made him look a bit… well… cocky?

Whatever his look signified, it had Alistair tensing under his scrutiny; feeling as though he was the brunt of a poor natured joke.

He frowned at the man, and cocked his own eyebrow in a challenging manner.

"Why yes, I can look like a cocky prick too." He said calmly. And at the merchant's confused look, Alistair suddenly found the silver lining in all this. He could be as much of a snarky bastard as he pleased, with absolutely no repercussions! And he couldn't help but grin at the revelation.

"Thank the Maker for small blessings."

_Though it's weird that even a merchant doesn't know common. Isn't it considered a trade tongue?_

He watched as the merchant's other brow lifted to match the first in a look of surprise, saying something to him in their foreign tongue before glancing back briefly at Embla.

When he turned back to Alistair his expression was a great deal more serious and he began talking louder, and slower.

_Was this guy serious?_

Alistair looked over to Embla across from him with an incredulous look, but she couldn't be bothered to notice as she was hunched over with her head cradled in both hands. Her shoulders were shaking and she made very unladylike snorts at uneven intervals.

_Sooo… did that mean he wasn't serious?_

All the while, the merchant was shouting at him and enunciating uselessly. That is until Embla sat up (finally) and back handed him on the shoulder as she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.

"Nok, Eye nuh thosh." She shook her head at her scowling companion, still obviously fighting down her laughter.

Embla looked back over to Alistair with an apologetic expression.

"Beklager, Alistair." She gestured to her merchant friend, lips twitching in amusement.

"Eye nuh thosh." She said slowly and, thankfully, in a quieter tone and watched him expectantly.

"Huh?"

At Alistair's confused look, Embla smiled then pointed a finger at his chest.

"Alistair." She pointed to her own chest.

"Embla." Then finally, resting a hand on the other man's shoulder; her eyes never leaving Alistair's.

"Eye-nuh-thosh." She said slowly again, and enunciated each syllable clearly.

"Ooooh!" Alistair drawled in realization. "Who would've thought all that blathering was some kind of introduction?"

He nodded and turned his attention back to "Eye-nuh-thosh", who looked a bit disgruntled at having his thunder stolen. Alistair bowed his head slightly, to the man in greeting.

"Nice to meet you ser Eye-nuh-thosh," Alistair smiled pleasantly as he completely butchered the man's name. "That's a weird name, by the way. I wonder if you might let me just call you Thosh, or… oooh. How about weird hair guy!"

At both their blank stares, Alistair sighed.

His silver was suddenly tarnished with the reality that there was no one there to appreciate his excessive wit.

_Eh, "weird hair guy" wasn't that funny anyway._

Thosh cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly, and stood up from his chair. With some beckoning hand motions and talking more nonsense, Alistair moved to follow him with Embla close behind. He was lead across the cabin to the large desk that took up the far side of the room, the walls surrounding it lined by loaded down bookshelves with a heavy iron safe tucked into one corner. Thosh sat in the chair behind it and began rummaging about in one of the drawers, answering the unspoken question of ownership.

Alistair waited in front of the desk, while Embla leaned a hip against it; crossing her arms and resumed a quiet dialogue with Thosh, to which he gave noncommittal hums and murmurs as he searched a bottom drawer stuffed full of scrolls.

"Ah-hah!" He cried triumphantly as he dragged out whatever particular scroll he'd wanted.

Motioning again for Alistair to step closer, Thosh stood up and began unrolling the scroll over his cluttered desk top.

Curious, Alistair moved to stand next to Thosh to see what all this was about.

"A map!" He exclaimed in surprise as the unfurling parchment revealed the jagged lines depicting landmasses, rivers and mountain ranges.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Excited now to get some answers, Alistair leaned closer to study the scroll for familiar landmarks.

Minutes ticked by in silence during his inspection. Thosh and Embla waiting and watching on either side of him expectantly.

Alistair's hands suddenly shot out to grip the sides of the map hard, crumpling the thin vellum as he pulled it closer to his face then stretched it to arm's length. He flipped it upside down and side to side, squinting, hoping he was just looking at it wrong.

"What is this?" He spun angrily to Thosh. "Some kind of joke?"

Shocked at his sudden aggression the man stepped back in alarm, and Alistair turned around to face Embla; shaking the "map" at her in one clenched fist.

"This isn't Fereldan!" He could feel panic starting to grip him as he shouted at her.

"What the _fuck_ is this?!" With a growl he threw the now damaged scroll to the floor and stomped away; pacing across the room and scraping both hands through his hair.

This _had_ to be some kind of joke! There wasn't a Maker cursed thing on that bit of trash that looked familiar. He wasn't an expert of geography, but he knew what a map of _fucking_ Thedas looked like!

_But why? Why would they bother to save me, then turn about to feed me some ridiculous lie?_

At a light touch on his shoulder, Alistair whirled about to blast his frustration on the unsuspecting culprit; but stopped short at being confronted with Embla's worried expression.

"Vennligst Alistair, stopp." She gripped his wrist and gave him a pleading look, pulling his hand gently away from the white knuckled grip he had on his hair.

He took a few deep breaths, shaking his head and trying to think through this new problem. Either they were playing a cruel trick on him, or… they weren't. He squeezed his eyes shut and snorted at the idea.

_I almost hope they are trying to pull one over on me._

He didn't really want to imagine that he'd ended up a lot farther from home than he'd thought.

Opening his eyes again, Alistair was caught in Embla's icy blue stare. Her steady regard made his breathing even out, helped him think.

Since he'd regained consciousness this woman had done everything she could to help him. Healed, fed, bathed and clothed him with no indication that she expected anything from him in return. Really, in this situation, it wasn't like he had much choice but to trust her. Though, he _really_ didn't want to believe any of this could possibly be true.

So when she tugged on his wrist to bring him back across the cabin to stand again in front of Thosh's desk, he let her.

Thosh had placed the scroll again on the desktop and kept himself a safe distance from Alistair, arms crossed and watching him uncertainly.

Embla drew his attention back to the "map", with calm quiet words and a pointed finger at a particular spot on its surface.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, seeing nothing but her sincerity, before he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and looked down.

Her finger was placed at a northern point of one of the larger continents. Everything about the multiple, depicted land masses that took up the majority of the parchment was alien and strange to him. He looked back up to Embla, confused as to what she was trying to tell him.

At his look, she released the wrist he'd forgotten she was holding and gestured in a circle about her. Encompassing the entirety of the cabin about them with a gesture, then pointing to Alistair firmly, then to herself and Thosh in turn. Embla then stabbed her finger down again to that spot on the map she'd pointed to before.

Grimly, Alistair stared hard at the map as he realized her meaning.

So now he knew where he was, but it made no difference in helping him find his way home.

Embla tapped her finger at the spot and Alistair looked back up to her unsmiling face. Seeing her sympathy and genuine concern for him.

"Himmel-kant." She stated firmly. Tap, tapping at that spot. "Himmel-kant."

Looking back to the map, Alistair leaned heavily on his braced arms against the desk, legs feeling weak and shaky. The name meant absolutely nothing to him, but he was afraid that would soon change.

"Himmel-kant." He muttered, taking in a lungful of the suddenly thin and stifling air.

"Maker's breath…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very sorry for this late update. School, kids, and life in general just keep getting in the way. Plus I've had to write this all in secret! My husband has very nasty things to say about fanfiction. So I, of course, have to stay up late to type up a few sentences before I can pass out.
> 
> I hope, this chapter turned out okay. I had a hard time with it. I wanted to give Alistair more depth and a little background to what he's been up to since Origins. (And some of what happened during Origins)
> 
> By the way, Ainethach's name is pronounced like Eye-nuh-thosh in Norwegian. It's actually a Norwegian name. So that's why Alistair is saying it like that. And "Himmel-kant" is Sky rim or Sky edge in Norwegian. It's a descriptive title. Like Black Marsh, or High Rock, so I figured it would have to be translated as well. Unlike places like Hrothgar, or Cyrodiil and Tamriel. Just trying to keep it real. As much as you can in fiction, right?


	6. "Is this place even on a proper map?"

“Sky~rim…”  Alistair said weakly.  His voice was low and halting, a thick accent making the title of her homeland sound jarring to her ears as he fumbled it from numb lips.

“Kūrėjus kvėpavimas…”  He breathed, the comment low and sounding very much like a prayer.

Embla watched his reactions as she stood close to his right shoulder, her hand hovering over his elbow as he became pale and sweat began to bead upon his brow.  His shoulders were tense and hunched up around his bowed head as he took quick shallow breaths through slack jaws.  His knuckles turned white from the force of his grip on the edge of Ainethach’s desk as he leaned heavily against it; and she suspected that that was only thing that had kept him from collapsing.

He stared at the full atlas of Nirn for a long time, but Embla didn’t think he was actually seeing it. 

“He doesn’t seem to be taking any of this very well.”  Ainethach intoned grimly, breaking the silence as well as stating the obvious.

“I don’t think he recognizes anything on the map.”  She answered, not taking her concerned gaze away from Alistair’s face.

“Troll shit!”  Ainethach barked in outrage.  “That map is completely accurate!  I paid good septims for it.  Which he now owes me by the way.  It’s ruined!” 

With a look of disgusted disbelief, Embla finally pulled her gaze away from her shocked charge and rounded on her friend, who still stood in the corner on the other side of the desk.  His arms were crossed and his lips pursed in a sour, disgruntled look.

“Seriously?  The poor man is going through some kind of crisis here, and you’re concerned about a piece of parchment…”

“Expensive parchment” He cut in.

“… that you’re unlikely to ever need.”  She finished with a glare.

“Oh, I don’t know.”  Ainethach shrugged his shoulders and turned his head to the side with a roll of his eyes.  “I bought it on a whim thinking ‘Hmm, never know when this could come in handy. Like when some shivering mad n’wah might drop by and need it to find his way home.’”

Embla huffed in exasperation.  She looked back to Alistair, who hadn’t even twitched at their somewhat heated conversation; and contemplated the situation.

She knew Ainethach didn’t really mean to be a _total_ ass.  He was just trying to hide his unease regarding his mysterious houseguest’s unknown origins.  An unease she fully shared.

He’d made it quite obvious, even without any comprehensible words, that he didn’t recognize the map.  He’d looked shocked, then suddenly angry as he’d spun about with a look of burning accusation, and disbelief.  His features twisted and teeth barred as he snarled curses in his strange tongue.  His sudden aggression had had Ainethach lurching away, wary of an attack; and had caused Embla to tense and reach surreptitiously towards the dagger at her thigh. 

And now… Now he just stared.  Boring a hole straight through the map, seeming to be caught up within his own turbulent thoughts, and Embla couldn’t even imagine what was going through his mind right now.  By the looks of things, though, nothing good.

She’d seen similar looks on some after a particularly vicious battle, the silent unseeing stares and unresponsive demeanors.  Like all emotion was washed away from their features after they had been flooded with its excess.   

For some reason, it bothered her.  She’d not known the man for long, but seeing him in such a state of shock seemed sad and unnatural.  Much as she’d felt towards his earlier melancholy upon waking him this morn.  It was like she’d kicked some poor defenseless pup, and she had no idea what she’d done to cause such a reaction.  All she knew was that she wanted to somehow fix it and bring back that lopsided grin she seen before.

Embla shook her head at her own thoughts looking back and forth between the now prickly Ainethach and the dumbstruck Alistair. 

“Men are such sensitive creatures.”  She grumbled with a tired sigh.  Earning her a glare from across the desk.

“I heard that!”

Embla gave another sigh and turned about, gripping Alistair’s arm and tugging him away from the desk with very little resistance. 

Pulling him along behind her Embla headed for the door, snagging Ainethach’s heavy cloak from his bed on the way; as well as gathering her own and shouldering her bow and quiver.

“Wait! Where are you going?”  Ainethach pulled himself from his corner and moved to follow.  “And why are you taking _my_ cloak?”

“The man needs some air.” Embla rolled her eyes.  “And it’s as cold as troll tits out there.  I know how thin skinned you foreigners are.”

* * *

 

Noonday sunlight sparkled off the Karth as its waters rushed and tumbled past over the smoothed river rocks.  The constant sound of the rumbling water drowned out all noise below a shout this close to its bank.  Embla stood close to the edge of the river’s rocky shore and breathed deep the cold crisp air. 

Though snow still covered the ground, she could still see the signs of approaching spring visiting, however briefly, upon the Northern regions of Tamriel.  The sun seemed brighter and blazed hotter, melting the upper layers of the blanketing snow until it seemed a shining glaze of clouded glass across the landscape; creating a slick shell as it refroze against the incessant freezing winds that were characteristic to the harsh lands of Skyrim.  Magnus’ light beamed down, blinding, off the reflective ice, stinging Embla’s eyes and reddened her cheeks.

Grumbling, she opened a small pouch at her belt and dipped in two fingers then dragged them across her face, leaving dark smudges of aspen ash to reduce the sun’s glare and to keep her skin from burning.

 Embla glanced warily over to her brooding companion who paced several yards down river, his forbidding countenance made her hesitate in approaching him.

Earlier, Alistair’s shock had quickly dissipated as she’d led him from Ainethach’s cabin and away from the bustling sounds of the busy mining settlement.  His dazed eyes had snapped into focus and his breath froze in his chest at the icy chill in the air making him cough on an inhale and cross his arms against the biting wind.  Embla had handed him Ainethach’s heavy cloak, which he’d quickly donned; gaze darting about his new environment as Embla pulled him down the snow covered stones of the Imperial road that led away from the town of Karthwasten.

Now as he stomped back and forth across the river bank she could see his mouth move as he seemed to argue with himself.  The hood of his borrowed cloak was thrown back, exposing his fool head to the frigid air and harsh sun.  His hair was disheveled by the wind and the constant agitated raking of his hands through it.  He looked half crazed as his narrowed eyes flew about his surroundings in confused disbelief; it didn’t help that he had two days growth of beard and the beginnings of a nasty sunburn that gave him a ruddy complexion and bloodshot squinting eyes from the glare off the snow. 

His pacing had worn a muddy trench over the past hour as she’d let him vent and curse his frustrations, but she thought it best to put a halt to this one sided rant that he gave no indication of ending any time soon.  At least until she could see to his burns and keep him from going snow blind, since he seemed ignorant of the risk. 

His preoccupation had him jump in surprise when Embla intercepted his path and laid a heavy stalling hand upon his shoulder, abruptly stopping him in his tracks.  When his gaze focused on her face he raised his brows at her ash smeared face as she frowned up at him from under her fur lined hood.

He muttered some nonsense, which she ignored as she fussed over the foolish foreigner; tugging the cloak’s hood up over his idiot head, and pulling it low over his red-rimmed eyes. 

Alistair sputtered indignantly trying to push the hood back, but Embla slapped his hands away with a growl before grasping his wrist to drag him back up the road to Karthwasten.

She disregarded his grumbling as she hurried him back to Ainethach’s cabin, her thoughts turning inward over her own problems.

She really didn’t have time to mollycoddle a man she barely knew, but she felt responsible for the fool’s safety.  He seemed a man who could take care of himself under normal circumstances, but he was a warrior who’d been tossed out of his element into a strange land with no foreseeable way home.  He’d been made vulnerable, forced to depend on virtual strangers for his continued survival, and she had no doubt that his ignorance of the harsh land he found himself in would kill him. 

_By Shor, the man couldn’t even keep himself from getting a Gods-damned sunburn!_

Embla shot a glare over her shoulder at Alistair’s reddened face at the thought.

But she had her own responsibilities, and her own frustration was beginning to build at each delay in her journey home.  She couldn’t help but take a moment to brood over the series of problems she’d encountered since she’d left the city.

At first, she’d set out from Markarth over a month ago at the behest of Jarl Igmund to investigate Forsworn activity within his hold, but she seemed to accumulate trouble over the past few weeks.  She remembered her Father once telling her of how trouble sired three children, and she was starting to see some truth to the ridiculous superstition.

If Forsworn trouble wasn’t bad enough, she’d also been called upon to assist in the rescue of a Moth Priest (of all things!) from a coven of vampires who’d claimed ties to the Volkihar Clan.  Embla was unsure of exactly _why_ Harkon would need a Moth Priest, but she sure as hell would ensure that whatever those plans were would not come to pass.

She’d found her loyalties stretched, between that of her Jarl and her oaths to Isran of the Dawnguard; not to mention her own personal objectives.  Her troth to either of these men was not to be taken lightly, and she doubted Jarl Igmund would take too kindly to any distraction in her duties as Thane; duties she took great pride in.  The right hand of Igmund and a servant to the people of the Reach.  At the same time, her work with the vampire hunters wasn’t something she could bring herself to ignore.  Embla knew that if ever they summoned her she would rush to their call. 

She _burned_ to hear that call…

Embla shook herself from her darkening thoughts as she caught sight of the first thatched roofs of Karthwasten.  Hurrying her steps, she was eager to get away from the sun’s harsh light that blazed both down from the sky above, and blinded from the ground below.  The wind had also picked up, and though the cold didn’t bother her the fact that Alistair was no longer shivering was a bad sign.

By the Nine, the man would both freeze _and_ burn in this land if she left him alone!

Speaking of Trouble’s youngest whelp, Alistair’s attention was suddenly caught and held like a fist on something along the Northern outskirts of the settlement’s boundaries; making him stumble along behind her as he stared ahead.  His brows furrowed down over his narrowed bloodshot eyes, and his lips parted as he looked on with an expression of complete bewilderment.

Curious at what he found so interesting, Embla looked ahead in the general direction where he stared; but for the life of her she could find nothing out of the ordinary.  Just the bustling settlement of Karthwasten at midday.

The rocky outcroppings that cradled Karthwasten’s Northern borders also held the source of its people’s wealth and livelihood.  The Sanuarach silver mine lay closest to them, workers coming and going pushing carts of discarded rock and precious ore through the muddied slush churned about by their booted feet and the ruts left from the wheels of overburdened carts.  They called out to each other with the boisterous conviviality of those who have lived and labored together for a good long time.  

The conspicuous form of Lash gra-Dushnikh was unloading one cart close to the large domed stone smelter that lay a few yards from the shadowy entrance of the mine.  Embla could see her exchanging words with, and casting disdainful looks at Belchimac. 

Poor sod was probably getting another earful of insults from the imposing Orsimmer female; probably insinuating something about the thin blood of his ancestors and their less than honorable upbringing. 

Not that Belchimac ever took offense, the crazed native seemed to enjoy riling up the Orc.  Hell, he looked downright gleeful as he shoveled coal into the smelter’s furnace.  Embla kept expecting Lash gra-Dushnikh to take her pickaxe to the fool Breton’s head one of these days, but she was starting to suspect that the acerbic female enjoyed their banter as well.

Embla couldn’t help but smile at the pair as she passed by but a handful of yards from the furnaces blanketing warmth.  The air around the smelter was somewhat distorted and hazy from the heat meeting with the chill air bearing down on it.  She nodded to the both of them as she moved past, receiving a grin and a wink from the Breton and a frowning grunt from the Orc.

Just as she turned to make her way to Ainethach’s cabin across the way, she was pulled up short by her grip on a suddenly frozen Alistair.  Looking back she saw him vigorously rubbing his eyes with his free hand, muttering under his breath.

“Alistair?” Embla tugged at his wrist to gain his attention.  Did his eyes pain him?  She grimaced in concern.

_I should have thought to protect him better from the sun…_

At the same time she felt aggravated and scoffed at the compulsion she felt to take care of him. 

_He isn’t some helpless child!_

Alistair withdrew his fist from his irritated eyes looking back at Embla, and she couldn’t help but feel that compulsion intensify at the confused and lost expression that suffused his entire being.  From his furrowed brow and tense jaw, to his stiff shoulders; the white knuckled clenching fists that opened and closed in his distress.  His eyes were full of questions and worry, and his absolute frustration at the inability to voice them.

Embla bit her bottom lip as her expression softened in sympathy at his disquiet.  She squeezed his wrist, trying to silently convey her desire to help; to somehow soothe his anxiety.

“Come on Alistair.” She tugged gently again at his wrist, urging him forward. 

He hesitated for a moment, glancing again towards the mines before turning to follow her once more.  He shook his head as if to dislodge his troubled thoughts, and his free hand came up to rub absentmindedly at the back of his neck.

It pained her that she could not ease his misgivings.

_He is the very worst sort of Trouble._

* * *

 

“I do not like this idea worth a damn.”  Ainethach growled worriedly.

Embla looked over her shoulder with a raised brow in question while her hands hastily finished cinching the saddle’s girth strap about her mare’s barrel chest, before double checking the buckles and straps of the bulging saddlebags and sacks of provisions and bed rolls.  Her mount, turned pack horse, was loaded down for two (or four, what with the extra food she’d packed to feed Alistair) for the journey to Markarth.

Assured all was in order, Embla turned her attention back to her friend’s brooding countenance.  He stood atop the steps of his porch looking down at her with his arms crossed and face scrunched up in a sour look. 

“We’ve already discussed all of this, what’s the issue now?”  Embla crossed her own arms.  Ainethach had seemed on edge since yesterday, but she’d not had time to listen to his concerns as she’d spent yesterday afternoon bartering for supplies; which also included acquiring more appropriate winter attire for Alistair. 

She’d managed to scrounge together a few needed articles, but Karthwasten wasn’t exactly known for its thriving commerce.  What she _had_ been able to procure from the few who were willing to part with their meager possessions, was obtained through a great deal of wheedling, the loss of a good hunting knife, and the significant lightening of her purse. 

“You’re about to travel _alone_ , with a possibly _insane_ n’wah that you met three days ago.”  Ainethach was cocking that annoying eyebrow at her again, obviously implying by tone and expression that she was an idiot.

“Ugh!” Embla threw her hands up in exasperation, before dropping them down to slap against her thighs.  “He’s not insane, you twat!  He’s lost, and…uh, confused.” 

She would admit that sometimes Alistair’s behavior was strange, but she also thought the Mer were odd, or the Beastfolk; even Breton’s like Ainethach had strange customs to her.  All foreigners did, so it was most likely a difference in culture and upbringing.

“Yes, well I just hope he doesn’t _confuse_ you for a blighted skeever and stabs you in your sleep.”

Embla’s lips twitched at the Breton’s quick wit, but was not discouraged from her set course.

“He is in no way obligated to journey with me to Markarth,” She reminded Ainethach gently.  “And I see no reason why he would do me any harm.  He _needs_ me, Ainethach.”

Her brows furrowed at hearing her own wistful tone at the word _need_ , but he _did_ need her.  At least he needed _someone_ to advocate for him. 

She recalled his confusion and uncertainty yesterday upon returning Alistair to the cabin. How he had flinched from her in surprise when she’d cast a healing spell on his sunburns, and his chagrined look of gratitude for her care. 

Though, she had been hesitant to cause him further upset, she had ushered him back to Ainethach’s maps.  Through hand gestures, drawings, and some (she assumed) amusing pantomimes; Embla had been able to communicate her desire to have him accompany her to Markarth.

Of course she’d burned the drawings, having absolutely no desire to have Ainethach snickering at her renderings of stick people (and horse).  It had been embarrassing enough to have Alistair giggling like an idiot at her.

But he’d nodded at her in understanding. Giving her, again, that endearing lopsided grin; his look of relief at having some new objective set before him a palpable thing.  She’d understood the feeling, having been in a position of helplessness before; not knowing what to do, how to fix things, move forward.  To have a goal presented, even just that of a change of location; was solace against despair.

Embla was pulled from her thoughts at Ainethach’s derisive snort at her defense.

“You’re as crazy as a moon starved skooma cat too if you lay your trust so easily on every man with a pair of pretty eyes that drops out of the sky.”

Embla suddenly flushed and spluttered, her jaw dropping.

“I… I never said he was pretty!!” She glared indignantly as she recovered from the shock of his mortifying accusation.

“Don’t need to.”  He rolled his eyes and smirked at her flustered expression.  “You’re beyond obvious.  And I see you’re not going to deny being a crazy skooma cat either.”

“That… that doesn’t even make any sense!” It wasn’t very often Ainethach got the best of her, and she could tell the son-of-a-bitch was practically rolling in every moment of her discomfort.

“Eh?”  The bastard was outright grinning now. “I don’t know of anything crazier than a cat hopped up on skooma.  And all you crazies bay at the moon don’t you?”

With a growl, Embla pinched the bridge of her nose and took a number of calming breaths before setting her arms akimbo to square off against Ainethach’s condescension.

“Look, we’ve already discussed the reasons for bringing him with me to Markarth.”  Embla tried to get the conversation back on track even as she struggled to control an annoying twitch at the corner of one eye.  “Stendarr’s sweet mercies!  Just what the hell has you acting like a great pile of scrib jelly all of a sudden?!”

The Breton’s mirth disappeared as quickly as a lightning strike.  His mood instantly grim and troubled.  He stepped down off his porch to stand close before her, having to look up slightly to meet her suddenly suspicious gaze.

“Look, Em,” His voice pitched low.  His unexpectedly harsh tone sent a thrill of foreboding shivering down her spine. “I’ve asked around…”

He paused for a moment, and looked as though he were chewing on whatever he’d wanted to say with a disgusted look on his face that twisted his lips into an unpleasant grimace.

“Just spit it out Ainethach.” She urged warily.

He huffed out a pent up breath, and crossed his arms over his chest once again.

“I’ve asked around,” he said again slowly. “About that shrine you said where you found the man.”

At his pause Embla couldn’t help the low growl that rumbled out of her throat. “Aaaannnd…”  She rolled one of her hands towards him, coaxing him to just _get on with it_.

“It was a shrine to Peryite.” Ainethach said in a breathless rush as he looked away, bringing a hand up to rub uncomfortably over his balding pate.

Shocked, Embla just stood there, eyes wide and mind blank for a moment as it took its time to process the disturbing new information.

“There was mention of some Khajit fellow who passes through to visit the place every spring.” He continued without noticing her dumb struck expression.  “Ket or Kesh, something or other, I think his name was…”

He rambled on, unheard, as Embla’s brows snapped down when her fogged brain cleared in a rush at the implications of his words.

_A Deadric shrine?!_

This development really shouldn’t have been so surprising, though originally she had suspected that the shrine had been some Forsworn monument to one of the Et’Ada; or whatever spirits that they worshipped.

_But they also worship their Deadric Lords as well, don’t they?_

Ainethach placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention once again.  “After how you described finding him… and well, the strange lightning. This in combination with being found next to a Deadric Prince’s shrine…” 

Ainethach trailed off meaningfully, his hand squeezing her shoulder to press his point.

It was at this moment that the door to Ainethach’s cabin opened to have the subject of their disturbing discussion step outside.  Completely oblivious to the troubling enigma that his presence represented.

Seeing the two of them, Alistair gave them that damnably endearing lopsided grin. Well, he mostly addressed the look to her by way of greeting, with a vague nod of acknowledgement towards Ainethach.  His “pretty” golden eyes locked onto hers, looking far too guileless and trusting for Embla’s piece of mind.

_Kyne’s Breath!  But this man was Trouble._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for how late this chapter is. I can only give the excuse of having lots of papers to write for school. Hopefully I can get the next chapter out in the next couple weeks. Now I have to write another school paper! *sob*


	7. “We're not exactly traveling in the lap of luxury here.”

_He wandered the halls aimlessly, passing the occasional servant or guard without making even the most superficial attempts to acknowledge their presence._

_Even so he could feel the stares that followed him, like their eyes were burning holes in the back of his head.  It made his scalp itch, and he could feel a flush crawling up his neck at the unwanted attention._

_He rubbed his nape with one hand, trying to dispel the uncomfortable feeling, and escaped through a set of balcony doors that he knew overlooked the sprawling city of Denerim._

_The sights, sounds, and inevitable smells of the crowded city overwhelmed his senses and provided a much needed distraction to his dark, troubling thoughts.  The rising sun set the Amaranthine Ocean ablaze to the East, and shimmered against the Drakon River that flowed lazily toward the fiery horizon.  It would have been a lovely sight too, if not for the squalid neglect of the Alienage that lay across the wide sluggish channel.  A direct contrast to the elegant, sprawling estate where he currently resided; making the beautiful artistry of its arched windows, marbled statues, and crenulated columns seem suddenly garish and inappropriately vulgar.  It made him feel ashamed of the luxury he now enjoyed; the perfumed sachets amongst the linens, and the warm possets that comforted him beside cozy fires were now a cruel travesty of what life in the city entailed for those less entitled._

_His nose was likewise assaulted by the filth of the population’s runoff and of the accumulated middens piled high against the rough, dilapidated housing that were built tall and leaned precariously close together to accommodate the overcrowded slums.  It was a physical manifestation of the foul, sick rot that gave credence to the city’s implied depravity and corruption._

_Like a boil, it had been left to fester for unknown centuries under Theirin rule; and for that he felt some filial guilt for his bloodlines’ contribution or, most likely, their neglect._

_Which was all the more reason for his dread at what Eamon, and those nobles within his circle of influence, had planned for him at the Landsmeet._

_Even now they plotted behind closed doors without so much as a “by your leave”, taking for granted that he would gladly claim his birthright as the rightful ruler of Ferelden._

_Him, an unwanted bastard, a fumbling stable boy, a failed Templar, and Blight tainted Warden; a King?  All he could see was disaster down that road.  The looming responsibility of the entirety of a country was almost paralyzing; the fear had him sweating and stuttering at even the most innocent of inquiries from his “supporters”.  Obnoxious, self-important aristocrats who were already attempting to ingratiate themselves into his favor.  Their insincere flattery was as obvious as their cold desires to hold some sway over him.  They gave subtle digs and insinuations, voiced in sugary sweet eloquence; all designed to uncover even the smallest inference of a scandal that could be used to manipulate him later, in the aim to further their own ambitions._

_And they said Orlesians were masters of the Game?  Maker forbid he ever had cause to see their proficiency first hand!_

_But what alarmed him most of all, was the secret temptation he’d kept buried for as long as he’d known who’d sired him.  Those long squashed childhood dreams of proudly bearing the name “Theirin”; recognized as the legitimate heir to the throne.  How laughable it was, after all the years he’d been assured and forcibly reminded at every turn that such a scenario would never come to pass; now he was being strong armed into the crown._

_Truthfully, it left him reeling.  His head spun from the complete one-eighty his life had taken.  He felt lost and confused in the dizzying rush of events, and he needed some kind of anchor…_

_“There you are!”_

_He spun about at those lilting words of surprised pleasure._

_A flurry of red hair and green robes collided with his chest, taking his breath from him in a rush; and despite his anxiety, or maybe because of it, he embraced her tightly and sighed in relief._

_“Hmm…” He buried his nose atop her wildly curling tresses, scenting the rose water from her bath, and felt his world stabilize; her slight form pressed close, grounding him against the chaos of his earlier thoughts.   “How did you know that I needed this?”_

_Her frail arms wrapped about his waist, snuggling against his chest with a light laugh._

_“Agatha brought out a cheese tart, and you were nowhere to be found.”  She tilted her head back to gaze up at him with laughing emerald eyes, resting her chin on his sternum.  “Obviously, it was an emergency.”_

_He couldn’t help the full grin that stretched across his features, his heart lifting; practically soaring at her regard._

_“How right you are my love,” He chuckled at her mischievous smirk. “The combination of cheese and tarts should have had me running if I were in my right mind.”  He couldn’t help but kiss those smiling lips, basking in the bright warmth of her; feeling his troubles melt, flowing away with her contented hum._

_She pulled away first, reaching slender hands up to cup his jaw, stroking her thumbs gently over his cheekbones._

_“Oh my heart, it pains me to see you so conflicted.” Her fervent expression begged for him to confide in her all his troubles._

_“I’m… unsure of what I should do,” He leaned into her touch, taking comfort in her concern; closing his eyes and just feeling her love envelop him.  “And Maker, it all just pisses me off!” He gave her a disgruntled look.  “I have no idea how you can stand talking to all those fancy dressed, pretentious windbags…”_

_He trailed off as she giggled and wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss; halting his line of thought._

_“Heh…” She was still grinning when they finally came back up for air. “I was raised in the Circle, remember?  I have a gre~at deal of experience in conversing with pretentious windbags.”_

_“As for everything else,” Stepping back, she trailed her hands down his arms till her fingers laced with his.  “Whatever you decide, know that you have my support.”_

_She lifted both of his hands, brushing her lips across the knuckles; holding his gaze with a soft expression that had his heart clenching almost painfully._

_“And my love…”_

_“…Alistair.”_

* * *

 

The bittersweet memory faded even as Alistair fought the onset of consciousness; squeezing his eyes shut to hold on to that moment of comfort.  His chest still aching with pent up emotion.

 He both loved and hated these dreams, as they brought back some of the happiest, and the saddest experiences of his life.  He all at once dreaded his recollections of _Her_ , and longed for the sight of her; as he was starting to forget those little details he’d once obsessed over.  Like the exact shade of her eyes, and the way the sun highlighted all the different fiery hues of her hair.  Images that were once sharp in detail, were now muted and blurred; a reminder of all that he had lost.  The confusing mix of relief and pain left him somewhat disoriented upon waking.   

A chill wind blew through their shelter, shaking loose the last clinging tendrils of sleep from his mind.  Leaving only vague impressions of soft lips and loving words.  Alistair sullenly opened his eyes to see night still casting dark shadows over the surrounding rocks that shielded them from obvious view.  Their small fire making those shadows seem to dance sinisterly overhead as he recalled an entirely different sort of dream.  One consisting of dark flaming pits, and wicked laughter… 

He shook his head to dispel the memory, and its accompanying dread; concentrating instead on his unfamiliar surroundings, and trying to catch his bearings.  The events of the last few days coming to the forefront of his thoughts.

They rested in a shallow depression in the rock of a cliff’s base, with an overhang that provided some protection from the elements; as well as diffusing the rising smoke of their camp fire.  Embla had confidently led them the short distance to their camp from the cobbled road that followed the broad rumbling river they had been following all day, and judging by her familiarity with the area he guessed she’d stayed here a number of times. That, and the kindling, and wood that had also been conveniently left at the site for future use.

The woman, herself, was at the moment standing a few paces away, at the edge of their shelter; her eyes scanning the deeper shadows past the reach of their campfire’s weak, wavering light.  Her pale form glowed in the combined illumination of both the golden blaze of the fire and the gleaming silver of the two alien moons; a vision of ethereal beauty, and at the same time hauntingly eerie.  Like their surroundings, or even the woman herself; both strange, lovely, and somewhat wild. 

She seemed relaxed, leaning against the rugged rocks with a knocked hunting bow held loosely at her side.  The chill air that had Alistair shivering and huddling under the combination of both his bedding and hers, seemed to have little effect on Embla; something he’d noticed quickly in their travels.  She had offered him the use of her own cloak and bedding during her watch, and wore no cloak or coat as they travelled the road to this “Markarth”. 

She was content to feel the cold breeze that often cut through him like a knife; and he’d even seen her scrubbing snow over her face and arms to wash off the day’s sweat and accumulated ash.  Which she insisted on the both of them applying repeatedly to their exposed skin throughout the day. 

Alistair was sure he looked like he’d been rolling about in a cold hearth, as he’d found the idea of washing himself off with snow incredibly unpleasant (certain parts shriveled at the very thought!).  Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t shaved since Maker knows when.  He was sure he looked like an ashy, scruffy git right about now.

He found himself sorely irritated at her ability to _ignore_ the cold; as Ferelden’s were well known for their own resilience in such poor climate, and she was so obviously putting the whole of his countrymen to shame!  Even the Frostback’s would feel balmy in comparison to this harsh land he found himself in.  He took a moment to reminisce about the more pleasant weather of his homeland…

Even so, he was thankful for Embla’s obvious expertize in travelling through these barbaric, windswept highlands; as well as her charitable provision of more appropriate cold weather gear.  He didn’t doubt for a second that he would have been entirely lost (and frozen solid) had he been travelling alone, not to mention the fact that he probably wouldn’t have been here at all without her direct intervention.

Maker, but was he lucky!  He didn’t like to think about the odds of having someone of such an accommodating nature, just so happening to stumble upon him when he’d needed it the most.

Really the only issue he’d happened upon since first arriving in “Himmel-kant” (besides being here in the first place) was the fact that there was no easy way to communicate with anyone he’d met so far. 

Though, they were both becoming quite proficient at charades.  Which he found in equal parts both amusing and frustrating.  Like those embarrassing times when he had to inform Embla of his need to relieve himself, or his unsuccessful attempts at lightening the tense mood between them after they’d set out from the village “Karthwasten”, as she’d called it. 

He’d worried a bit over Embla’s suddenly wary glances, and strained smiles once they’d set out; but he figured it was just the normal caution a woman might show to travelling alone with a man she barely knew.  He’d think her a fool if she hadn’t been so prudent, and he most certainly wouldn’t think of taking her for a fool (she had the look of a female who’d pummel him into the ground if he did).

_I remember how nervous and watchful Neria was when we first…_

He quickly cut off that line of thought before it could fully develop; and he must have made some noise, as Embla jerked her head in his direction.  Suddenly alert, and body tensing at seeing him watching her.  He could feel heat creeping up his neck and face at being caught woolgathering in the middle of the night …and staring.  Idiot!

_Not a good way to convey your supposed harmlessness, nug-nuts!_

Clearing his throat loudly, Alistair staggered to his feet still wrapped up in his (err… and her) bedding.  Trying to play off his gawking by rubbing his eyes and giving an exaggerated yawn as he slowly shuffled around the camp fire to stand beside her.  A good arm’s length away, he might add; not wanting her to think he was trying anything improper.

“Maker’s cock, woman!  See here?  I’m a bloody gentleman.”

Alistair grinned at her confused expression.

_Ah! That silver lining again._

Chuckling to himself, he set his sights up to the night sky; taking in the strangeness once more.  A sure way to distract himself, and a reminder that he was in fact _not_ in Thedas.  Or on any other continent that he’d ever heard of for that matter.  It wasn’t just the moons, what with the smaller one seeming to orbit the larger (weird, right?); but the absolute lack of any familiar constellations that told him that he was on some altogether “other” plane of existence. 

As fantastical as that seemed, it was the only explanation that he could think of.  And really, he’d been trapped in the _fucking Fade_!  Anything could be possible he supposed.

Why, he was sure just the other day he’d seen a green woman with tusks and red eyes chatting up one of the locals (and no one but him even batted an eye)!  Either that, or he was hallucinating, or still in the Fade.  Or maybe both?  He really wasn’t sure how Fade… err stuff... worked.  Really, he was still considering that he might indeed be trapped in some weird demon induced dreamscape. 

Made him wish that bald elven apostate was around, as he’d probably now the difference. 

_Plus, the creepy elf would probably love this shite!_

Though he was pretty sure he’d never be able to come up with all this crazy in his own head.

_And I’m fairly sure demons are_ not _that imaginative._

Oh, he could just _see_ Morrigan cackling hysterically if she ever knew of his current predicament!  He’d do the same if their roles were reversed, though he didn’t think she’d ever be the self-sacrificing type.  Plus that witchy bitch would probably pull something wicked and devious (along with that giant stick) out of her backside; just long enough to beat the locals into submission, or trick them in some way that would have them eating out of the palm of her hand.  How unsanitary!

_And speaking of witchy, though decidedly less bitchy…_

Alistair sent a surreptitious glance out of the corner of his eye over at Embla, who had gone back to scanning their surroundings; reminding himself that she was, in fact, a mage.  Though it wasn’t like she made it obvious; as she took to carrying about a sword, daggers and a well-used hunting bow. 

_Where was her staff? Don’t mages always use those?_

Not to mention, the fact that he was used to mages wearing enchanted robes and such.  Though that was usually Circle mages, and not so much for the average apostate.

Not that he had issues with mages, in general.  After travelling all about Ferelden with Ner- _with mages_ , he’d come to appreciate having them in company. 

It was just that it all felt a bit… off?

His years of Templar training had made him sensitive to the feel of magic, though the skill was significantly dampened since he’d stopped taking lyrium; and he recalled that static-y, tingly feeling whenever he’d sensed a mage casting.  Which he remembered being rather pleasant under certain conditions…

Anyway, it seemed to be something altogether different here.  More powerful, maybe?  More like a hot, sharp rush of awareness that had made him gasp and flinch like an outright pansy! 

When Embla had cast her healing spell over him, that heated awareness had all suddenly coalesced, taking on something more visceral.   Vibrating intensely and forming a soft pleasant tinkling sound; centered on the woman and the bright golden light emanating from her palms.  He’d never seen such a healing spell quite like it before.  Almost as quickly as she had started it was over.  The sounds had lowered, the light and heat had dispersed itself to a generalized hum; making his hair stand on end as it rushed through him and away into the ether.

Alistair recalled the many times he’d been witness to the general use of magic, and in comparison, what he had known before seemed muffled.  Less vibrant, dull, and cold.  Like comparing the comfort and warmth of a hearth’s fire to the dim glow of a candle.

It was all a very interesting (if incredibly disturbing) question that he’d have to set aside for later.  Along with all the other accumulating questions he planned on asking.  That is, whenever he was able to speak whatever passed for the native tongue around here.

With a somewhat resigned sigh, Alistair unwrapped himself from Embla’s bedding and passed it off to her with an encouraging smile; waving her over to his abandoned bedroll.  She’d made no indication that they were to have a set watch, but then he just figured she’d wake him whenever it was time for his turn.  Though it looked to be well past midnight from what he could tell of the moons’ position. 

_Wait… Were moon and sun positions even the same here?_

_Huh…_ Best to leave those thoughts alone for now, or chance a headache.

He wasn’t sure exactly how far it was to this Markarth they were heading to.  From the map she had shown him it really didn’t look all that much farther off, but it seemed sensible to make sure his guide was as well rested as possible.  He saw no reason why they both needed to stay awake, and he most definitely wasn’t getting anymore sleep tonight.

She’d accepted her furs automatically, giving him a questioning look.  Oh, he could tell she didn’t like the idea too much, but he figured she would need to decide on whether or not to trust him at some point.  Might as well find out now.

Alistair eyed her expectantly, as he wrapped himself up in his own cloak and bed furs once more; raising an eyebrow in an almost challenging manner.  Which she noticed, if her narrowed suspicious glare was any indication, and looked to be mulling over her options briefly before giving a sigh and an accepting nod. 

Embla wrapped her furs about herself in a similar fashion and eyed him up and down with a frown before giving him a disgruntled huff and unbuckled the long sword and sheath she had hanging from her waist by a simple baldric suspension.  He took the rig and sword gratefully, aware of the sign of trust that she had just literally handed him hilt first. 

It hadn’t gone unnoticed that she had supplied him with just about everything for this trip _except_ for a weapon (unless it ever crossed his mind to use a teacup as such).  And though he could do some serious damage with just his shield, he appreciated having a blade between himself and whatever danger might present itself in this foreign land.

Alistair grabbed his shield, deciding not to bother with his armor; and took Embla’s place against the rocks.  He offered her back her sword belt and cross straps, but she motioned for him to keep it; and started adjusting the leather baldric to better fit his broader frame.  A good sign that he would not be left weaponless for the remainder of their journey.

“Thank you…” He said quietly.  Giving her a heartfelt (and greatly relieved) smile.

“Du er velkommen.” She grunted with a nod, before moving to lay upon the bedding he’d left behind.

Feeling somewhat lighter after the exchange, Alistair turned his attention to the shadows; admiring the strange beauty of the heavens, and the silvery cast it set upon the barbaric landscape.  He relaxed and scanned the rocky outcropping before him, and listened to the quiet rumblings of the river just beyond the bend.  Comforted by the sounds of nature and the soft rumble of newfound trust.

_Hah!  She’s totally snuffling like a newborn nug in her sleep!  I definitely needed to learn the language quickly, if only to be able to tease her about this later._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever since I posted anything. I've actually been sitting on this chapter for few months. Tweaking it here and there. Not sure if I'm totally happy with it. Decided to move a few things to the next chapter too.  
> I've been so busy with school lately it's amazing I've been able to do any writing at all! It's somewhat therapeutic though, so I've tried to make some time for it.  
> If anyone's noticed, I've started naming the chapters after quotes between Alistair and party members from Origins and so on. Surprisingly appropriate sometimes.


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